The Voyages of the Dawn Chaser Voyage One
by Peladon
Summary: What Jack Sparrow did next. Events following the close of AWE prove that Jack attracts weirdness and that the immortals aren't done with him yet. Jack, Gibbs, Barbossa, the crew, a whole host of OFCs and OMCs. Oh, and a little in the way of politics.
1. Chapter 1

**The Voyages of the Dawn Chaser **

**_Voyage One : Everything has to start somewhere_**

_**The players**_

_Jack Sparrow_ – a pirate captain and a smart man, with a taste for rum, long hair, long words and even longer plans

_Elanor_ _Cavendish _– a ship's captain and a smart woman, with similar tastes - except that she'd rather have brandy

_Ariadne_ – a ship's ghost – well maybe – very smart but with no tastes at all

_Calypso _– a sea goddess with a weakness for pirates, a wicked sense of humour and no sense of fair play

_The Lady_ – herself

_Barbossa_ – a pirate captain and a hard man with a liking for big hats, and a fear of inescapable curses and impending doom

_Various crew_ – all of whom who had been loved by their mothers but possibly no one since

_The Navy_

_An Island Govenor_

_A monkey_

_A parrot_

**1. Colliding worlds**

There are times when the only thing a sensible man can do is to get on with living, even if doing so means planning for death. No one in the whole world knew that better than Jack Sparrow, who certainly counted himself as one of the most sensible of men.

Indeed few men had more motivation to be so. He couldn't know for certain that the bloody locker, and its' inconvenient truths and terrifying trials, still awaited him now that Jones was gone, but nor could he know that it didn't. Not unless he was willing to attract the attention of a lady whose attentions were probably better not attracted for the moment. Not given her mood when last they met, or the size of his current boat and the, sadly, limited supply of rum.

Being Captain Jack Sparrow that meant that he had to find some way to change the facts and shift the balance of probability to something he was more comfortable with. Like improving the odds that he wouldn't die again.

Ever.

In the meantime, being Captain Jack Sparrow, and having made his plans and set his course, he intended to take every opportunity offered to avoid thinking about anything much at all. Unfortunately for the moment any such opportunity was absent, the sea and staying afloat requiring some considerable thought given his objective and his craft.

It was a severe disappointment to be sure to be reduced to sailing another small boat that had seen better days when he had expected to sail off into the sunset in the Pearl; well equipped as she was for taking him into an legendary, nay immortal, sunset. More than a disappointment, there was no denying it. But who would have thought that Barbossa could manage to persuade yet another crew to abandon him? Oh, he had known that his long time rival was also desperate to avoid returning to the world of the dead, and that he would do almost anything to hold onto the life Calypso had returned to him; which in his case meant anything he thought he could get away with. Barbossa remained a mutineer at heart, whatever changes Calypso and dying might have wrought in his black soul. Jack also knew that the man was consumed with the need to best him if he could not kill him. But he had thought that the terrible fate of the last faithless crew to abandon Jack Sparrow would be protection enough against mutiny by the present one.

However it seems that he had badly miscalculated the degree to which fear would be lessened by greed. Even so, Jack admitted to himself, he shouldn't have left Barbossa alive and free, nor that perfidious monkey who no doubt had had a hand.....paw.. in events too. Tied to the mast perhaps……

But he wouldn't make that mistake again, and he would have another chance.

One of his greatest strengths, to his own mind at least, was his patience; that and an ability to plan over spans of time greater than the next hour, a skill rarely shared by his opponents, or so it seemed. He knew that they called him mad, and he took no offence at the assertion because to their minds no doubt he was; but Jack knew too that this so called madness was more a way of seeing the world, and while it was often an advantage it was very rarely a disadvantage. Why then should he bemoan it? It had not been madness that had cost him his beloved ship, but instead a most un-pirate like tendency to trust that others would be no more dishonest than he was. Tendencies that, since his time in that bloody locker, and his experience of a certain Miss Swann, he had resolved to curb.

It was, of course, something of a pity that he hadn't practiced that particular resolve a trifle sooner.

With a sigh he reached for the bottle propped against his boot and stared at the horizon, his mouth twisting into a wry smile; nor should he have overlooked Gibbs weakness for drink. No, nor underestimated the time it would take him to get the ladies to the dockside, (unforgivable that was, given that he had unlaced their stays for them often enough). Yet in the circumstances there was nothing for it but to be philosophical. What was, well …. was…. The time would come to act but there could be no changing anything for the moment.

Anyways the anger of another betrayal he hadn't seen coming was leavened by the thrill of the chase and a sense of purpose and anticipation that had eluded him for far too long. He was master of his own fate again with desires of his own to fulfil, rather than a knight in the service of destiny and slave to someone else's desir. A situation to be greatly preferred to his mind.

It could have been worse after all. This dingy might be small but it had not belonged to Annamaria, so one trepidation the less. Davy Jones and his many tentacled servant were gone, and Cutler Beckett would never again seek to end his life.

He felt the brand beneath his coat prickle at the thought of that part of his past, perhaps that meant his unpleasant memories of the late, unlamented, Beckett could also be consigned to the deep, a boon however he viewed it. The sun was high and the sea was looking friendly, he tipped a mental hat to Calypso and hoped it stayed that way, and there was rum enough for the moment. Losing the Pearl might be a set back but it was no more than that; the charts nestling close to his heart, still beating in his chest despite recent intentions, made it sure that she would find him even if he didn't find her. If luck ran with him he would find the Fountain before that event occurred, a distribution of advantage that made him smile whenever he thought of it.

Jack grinned a brief flash of gold, oh yes, all in all, it could have been a lot worse. He took a swallow of rum, Miss Bloody Swann…. Turner .. whatever....could be staring piteously at him for example, imploring that he exercise a chivalry that he didn't have. Or her dear William could be demanding that he bail him out of yet another ill thought scrape as if he were the lad's father, perish the thought! His smile faded, yes it could have been worse. They, at least, would not plague him again, not for the next ten years at least, by which time he had every intention of being in a state where such trials would be nought but a flea bite on the long neck of eternity.

William Turner, now Captain Turner, and that was as daft an idea as Captain Swann, would have his father to teach him and the advantage of a crew that couldn't mutiny, and ship that couldn't be sunk, to help. More than he deserved given his designs on the Pearl and his willingness to consign her captain to the locker. No better than Barbossa now he came to think about it. After all it was not his fault that Beckett had seen his chance in their actions all those months before. Nor was it his fault that William had wanted the compass to save his distressing young lady just at the same time as he himself had needed it to save his own life, now was it? What had the boy expected him to do, hand it over and consign himself to Davy Jones or the locker? True had hadn't actually told William about the locker…… but he doubted it would have made any difference if he had. Bill's son had the same one track mind as his father and woe betide anyone whose needs walked another track.

Then again nor had William told him about Beckett, and matters might have gone differentlyfor all of them if he had.

He took another swallow from the bottle, checked the wind in the sail against his course and settled down with his hand on the tiller.

It was a pity about the Dutchman of course, no one would ever know just how much he had wanted to take Jone's place; but in that moment he had found it impossible to do anything else, despite the costs. He had miscalculated, not the first time it was true, and letting that miscalculation take Will Turner's life had been a step too far, whatever treachery the boy might have been guilty of. Captain Jack Sparrow had never asked others to pay his debts. Well….. in the tavern maybe, or the bordello, or at the chandlers… those were ….unavoidable trifles. But he had never asked others to pay for his mistakes, nor to save him from them. No, it came down to what a man could do and what a man couldn't do, and misjudging Jones and then letting William die as a result so that he could take the helm of the Dutchman was something that Jack Sparrow couldn't do. However much he might wish it otherwise.

He took another swig of rum as remembered that terrible moment again, the sound of Will's groans and Elizabeth's frantic pleas drowning out the sounds of wind, weather and battle, and the triumph in Jones eyes.

Will would be fine now, and ten years was little enough to ask for a life returned. Jack had no doubt that Elizabeth would be waiting on the shore for him when the first chance to shatter his chain to the Dutchman presented itself. If he, himself, didn't find what he was looking for then maybe he would be there with her, ready to take up the duties, and the attendant immortality, as dear William set them aside in favour of wedded bliss.

Assuming he hadn't learnt better.

Jack grinned at the wind, no he wouldn't have learnt, and having a fall back plan never came amiss.

But all being well he would not need it. Barbossa might have the Pearl for the moment but he had no course. He, on the other hand, had both a boat and a course and could afford, in the circumstances, to wait for the opportune moment to reclaim the Pearl. He doubted he would have to wait ten years this time. Yes this second life could be very much worse.

With a contented sigh he took another swallow of rum and settled down to enjoy the freedom of the sea and the first part of this new adventure.

***

The prow of the ship sliced through the swell, the foam spitting upwards to form a shimmering haze about the bow, rainbows that hung on the air and at times almost obscured the name carved there. Dawn Chaser, too fanciful a name for this venture of course, yet she had refused to change it despite the sums being offered. A dreamy name, drawn from her childhood, too fey perhaps for the ship it adorned, a large, solid and elongated lady whose size and height was only offset by her elegance. A lady built for both speed and survival, rather like her owner.

That owner sighed and stretched. The sun had warmed the decks, the wood seeming to purr with the pleasure of it beneath her feet. The expanse of canvas was almost too white to be real in the bright Caribbean sun and the mock brass of the rails glittered with a brazen light. All in all it was a day to be glad to be alive and at sea.

The voyage had been very successful so far; no pirate had appeared from behind the horizon to challenge her, delays had been minimal and the first stages completed in the record time she had hoped for, and with no obvious damage, let alone any need to put into port. There had been some bad weather earlier on in the trip but no other threat. The one serious storm, an icy inferno with mountainous seas, had not exceeded the Chaser's abilities, or her captain's, and a number of smaller but uncomfortable squalls had been no more than a mild inconvenience. Now the colder, greyer seas were behind her, and for the moment the wind was warm and the waters almost impossibly blue.

Off to port a school of bright scaled fish leapt in flashes of silver and red heedless of the effort or the risk of predators. It was impossible not to smile as she watched them flying in the sunlight, just as it was impossible not to stretch her neck and turn her face to the sun, feeling the wind catch at her hair, pulling it from its' binding to tumble and whip about her face. On a day like today all the loneliness and weariness of such a venture was forgotten and the sea was the only companion that she needed.

The sea and Ariadne.

With a sigh of pleasure she settled back to doing nothing but watch the waters flashing beneath her.

***

The day was fading but the thought of a night at sea, even in such a boat, held no fear for Jack. The sea was the only place he felt himself to be himself, to be at home. Born of a pirate, raised as a pirate how could it be otherwise?

He had tried to be otherwise it was true, but fate had forced him back to his roots in short order, and the events of recent months had tied him to his destiny with bonds that could never be set aside. He would be a pirate forever now, wherever he went and whatever he did. The legend had grown wings of its own and would fly around the world and back again and then around it once more. Captain Jack Sparrow would forever be the pirate who defeated the Compnay andDavy Jones and gave sailors a new story to tell. His mouth curled in a set and bitter smile, his hand drifting down to the macabre object fastened to his sword hilt for a moment before he took another swallow of rum; his father would finally be proud of him.

A hurried gulp of the rum washed that thought away and he smiled again remembering Gibb's voice as he had sauntered away with the ladies. Sea turtles! Being a pirate had its advantages it was true, Gibbs was a good man and he'd make sure that the next time Jack made port in Tortuga he would find a welcome, even if he had to endure a slap or two for forms sake. 'Why' he mused to himself, 'couldn't everyone be like Gibbs. He never asked anything that couldn't easily be given, never expected you to be more than you said you were, and if he knew who you really were… well he never let you be sure of that.'

With a sigh of contentment he settled back against the miniature mast, tipping his head to watch as the sun set the clouds alight, turning the waves caps below them to scarlet lace. Calypso, at least, seemed to have declared a truce with him for the moment. He settled more comfortably, pulling his coat around him as the first star of evening staked night's claim to the sky. 'No,' he thought, 'the world would be a lot easier to deal with if everyone was like Gibbs. Or Norrington.'

He frowned, why had he suddenly thought of Norrington? The man was dead, for whatever that seemed to mean these days.

Jack pursed his lips as he thought a little more about that. Would Norrington have found his way back to the Dutchman? Assuming he had ever left it. What would be his choice, death or a chance to sail the seas a little longer? Jack almost laughed, a pleasant thought that one, he was minded to think that Will and Norrington deserved each other, both of them being so prone as they were to simple minds, hasty judgements and unwise affections. 'And betrayal, let's not forget the betrayals' he reminded himself.

Not that he wished the Commodore ill, never had, not when he had tried to hang him, not even after Norrington had taken Jones heart and fled to respectability and Cutler Beckett and so pitched them all into open warfare. You couldn't expect people do anything other than what was right by them, not when it came down to the bottom of it. That was all that Norrington had done, what he saw as right by him. He had succumbed to the dark side of ambition it was true, but as ambition was a large part of what Norrington was there was always going to be a dark side if the circumstances were right. Who could have foreseen that the circumstances would ever be so right?

Certainly not the Commodore himself.

Yet in the end he had come good, or so it seemed from what little Elizabeth had said of the matter, and who could ask more than that? Who could blame a man for showing himself to be less perfect than he thought himself when first the Lady failed to smile on him? Certainly not a man like himself who had seen the power of temptation and despair as often as he had found the rum bottle empty, whose own character was, according to some others, some very vocal and vexatious others, not entirely without its flaws.

No, it was true that Commodore Norrington had failed when first tested, but he had found his way back to himself, even if it took him adying to do it. Jack raised his bottle to the darkening sky, sighting on the first star of evening as it began to glow above the deepening blue of the horizon,  
"Here's to you James Norrington. I hope you find what you were looking for."  
The wind took his words and seeded them in the slap of the waves and the creaking of the sail canvas. Maybe they would reach Norrington, wherever he was.

He took another deep swallow of rum then corked the bottle and settled it at his feet, laying back to watch the rest of the stars come out to play. The wind was brisk, filling the sail in a workmanlike manner but not sufficient to demand his attention, and in the gathering dusk the memories ran like water through his mind, a bright flashing brook rippled by dark rocks and swirling eddies. Jack sighed, it seemed a lifetime since Will Turner had broke him out of jail to save Elizabeth. Which given his intervening death at the ungrateful madam's hand it probably was.

He pushed the sudden melancholy away, he had a second life now and he intended this to be a somewhat longer one. On that reassuring thought he allowed himself to drift into sleep.

***

The golden mood of the morning had lasted until mid afternoon but then it faded into something much less comfortable. At first it was no more than a vague impression that the air was colder despite the height and the white-yellow glare of the sun, but as the afternoon wore on the wind seemed to become uneasy, and though Ariadne insisted that nothing was amiss, the feel of the ship seemed to have shifted. Elanor knew her ship as she knew herself, fully, dispassionately and without sentiment, and though there was no of sign of trouble aboard the Chaser something was ruffling her back hair.

If it wasn't the ship then it had to be the sea. It was a blue as ever, the occasional shoal of bright coloured fish still visible in the smooth surface beyond the Chaser's draught, yet there was something oddly disturbing about the very calm of it. She set herself to determining the source of her unease, but despite all her investigations, and a long half hour staring at the horizon from the lookout, there was nothing to explain the sense of danger that set the fine hairs of her forearms bristling.

As the long afternoon drew to a close her sense of something amiss increased. Though the readings gave no reasons for it the sea had become more troubled in the last hour or so and a hint of fog could be seen on the horizon. The air had taken on an edge, like the changes before a storm, and a vague sense of unreality started to claw at her. If she turned quickly she thought she could see strange shadows on the edges of her vision, shapes and lights that faded as she faced them; there were sounds too, as if someone was whispering in her ear but in a voice too low to be heard. It felt as if the world was being viewed through a prism, one that showed almost true but not quite, the colours too perfect, the lines too straight, the curves too curved, and yet, other than that, all familiar and ordinary. She checked herself over but there was no sign that she was unwell, Ariadne gave her no reasons for her strange feelings, which, truth be told, bothered her more than the feelings themselves.

Nor could she shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching her. There were moments when she felt compelled to spin around, hands reaching for the weapon at her belt, sure that some one or some thing had slid aboard the ship and was creeping up on her. Each time there was no one there, and she stood in the middle of the deck, dropping her fists to her side and wondered if she was going mad.

They had warned her that so much unaccustomed solitude could shake a person's sanity, but she had waved the warnings away. She was used to being alone with her thoughts, always was, even in a crowd, the simple absence of people could not threaten her. So she had thought. Until this moment she had also thought herself proved right, at no time had she felt the loneliness to be a burden more than she could bear. If she became bored or depressed Ariadne was there, and there was always the sea, her ever-changing companion.

But the sense of a presence somewhere close didn't go, though the empty sea stretched on to the horizon with neither sight nor sound of any other human inhabitant. She gathered her herself some food and settled at the prow as evening darkened the skies, watching the mists that seemed to be gathering on the horizon. High above the stars began to appear, their light made hazy by a veil of cloud. The shifting light set shadows dancing on the deck and she was tempted to light the lamps and banish them, but the beauty of the evening was such that she felt unable to disturb it. Instead she kept her eyes on the horizon and told herself that the whispering was nothing more than the wind in the ropes.

***

The fret arrived just before dawn, nothing unexpected in these waters. It was unusual for a mist to be so cold though, Jack pulled his coat tighter around him and frowned, and it was also unusual for the sea to be so flat, as if all vigour had been stolen from it. He cast a hurried look around him, realising that he could see no more than two arms lengths from the bow of the boat, a discovery that was more than a little unnerving. Maybe Calypso had not forgiven him after all; perhaps she was plotting her revenge on him even now. The Kracken might be dead but who could say which of her familiars were hunting in this strange fog. Maybe he should head for shore, wait for the sun to rise and take the chill from the air before resuming his course.

He got to his feet, and nearly fell on a wave of dizziness and fatigue. 'Bugger', he thought, 'can't afford to be unwell, not here and not now. Barbossa will have discovered the chart gone and will be hunting me and I'll need my wits about me for that encounter.'  
True the crew would probably do nothing against their abandoned captain but there could be no denying that Hector's desperation would make him even more malignant that usual.

Another wave of dizziness shook him and Jack brushed a weary hand across his forehead, but the skin was no warmer than usual if a little damp from the spray and mist. He sank down again, no point in denying that he was tired, had been since before the locker, and that mammoth battle with Jones had driven him deep into his final reserves. But it was more than that and he knew it, the weariness stretched back to his realisation that he was about to lose the Pearl he had fought for so long and so hard to Jones, the Pearl and his life. Back to the horrors of that Turkish prison, the stench of a rotting corpse and the long terrifying hours in a suffocating coffin, and his near roasting on the island. Exhaustion had never really left him after that and only desperate need, and rum when available, had kept him on his feet in the weeks since his return to living. The bone deep weariness might have played more than a little part in his recent errors and miscalculations and he could not let them exact any further toll.

With resignation he realised that his head was hurting again, a now familiar pain behind his eyes that made him want to let them slide shut. But this pain was different, this time it felt as if the pressure was coming from outside of him rather than from within his head. His scalp was prickling too, and the hairs on his arms and legs were on end, as if a storm were coming. Jack sighed, ever since he had first made Elizabeth's acquaintance he seemed to be constantly getting wet, now it seemed likely that he was in for another drenching.

Closing his eyes against the pain he reached down for the rum bottle, like so often in the past it was the only thing to hand to make things bearable. The first swallow did nothing to improve his mood, so he took another, then another before corking the bottle and letting it fall back to the bottom of the boat. He waited for the familiar warmth and relief to seep through him, but all that happened was that he was struck with a deep desire to heave the lot back over the side. He swallowed hard on the contortions of his stomach, 'oh bugger' he moaned to himself, 'this is not the moment for the rum to betray me too.' He squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and swallowed again, wondering if this was how it felt to be seasick.

The pressure seemed to grow by the minute, and, burying his head in his hands, he tried to rub away the growing ache , aware that he was cold despite his coat and hat. Jack didn't think he'd ever felt so miserable at sea before and fear clutched at him as he wondered what the long-term consequences and effects of his escape from the locker might yet prove to be. Death had indeed a way of changing priorities, particularly when there was the risk that it was no death at all but instead an eternity in the desert of Jones making. Norrington had been fortunate by comparison. His own attempts to evade Jones had taken him deep into unfamiliar waters and led him to actions that still, when recalled, made him feel somehow less than himself. Not that he had been alone in this corruption, Elizabeth and Will had, like the Commodore, also been tainted by their encounters with Calypso and her lost lover. Barbossa had long been too tainted to count.

But if anyone of them had earned redemption, other than Norrington, then surely it was himself? Yet it seemed unlikely that he would be the one to profit from those redeeming actions.

The pain grew as he thought about it and his stomach twisted again as his thought fled back to the deck of the Dutchman and as he remembered the feeling of holding everything he wanted, everything he had ever wanted, in the palm of his hand. The surge of joy and elation was beyond anything he had ever felt before, only equalled by the horror and indecisions that followed so quickly on its heels. The memories poured in again and throb of his head seemed to beat in time with the pulse of Jones heart; the sound of it was deafening, the light behind his closed eyelids taking on the same colour as the shuddering organ. It could have been so easy, it should have been so easy, he could have stabbed the heart and had what he wanted most in the world, and an end to all his fears and exhaustion. If only he had stabbed the heart.

Yet he had stayed his hand.

He could have taken the risk that William would survive long enough for it to be his own captaincy that claimed him rather than Jones, that as captain he could give his crewman time ashore, that Calypso would allow it. But he had been so very tired, his head still reeling from the blow of a moment before, and though he had managed to open the chest and forestall Jones first intended sword thrust he was too tired to think it through when the choice came. So he hadn't risked it. Instead he had taken pity on her grief and desperate fear, looked sadly on a young man's dying light, and had put that one chance of everything he had ever wanted into someone else's hand.

Would William have done as much for him, a pirate whatever else he was, if their roles had been reversed? Would he do as much for him now should things go badly and the Dutchman found his dying body adrift in this small boat? He doubted it.

'It could happen' some small part of him whispered, and he shuddered wondering if the shades of himself, abandoned with the madness in the Dutchman's brig, had found him again.

Now instead of his heart's desire he faced a future bounded by the things he feared most. Only the fountain offered him a second chance and he must take it before that was snatched away too. He raised his head and pulled out the compass, squinting at it through the red glow behind his eyes, it still showed the same course, no flicker of indecision then. He had no choice, he would put up with the discomfort of the mists and the pains in his head, take the risk of deeper water and follow that steady needle to his remaining hopes of freedom and the Pearl.

***

"Him wilt die." Calypso said to her companion, her voice and face sad. "I did not intend for that. Davy Jones has marked him bad and I am afeared that he will not survive it, even though he escaped the locker." Around her the blue seas took on a shade of grey.  
The other was silent but her quizzical look conveyed all that was needed between them. Calypso sighed,  
"I caan nat change it. It is nat the sea he needs to fear, but himself. His need be driving him into dangerous waters, too dangerous for so small a vessel. I caan nat warn him, he will nat listen. Him do nat trust me. Why would he? I understand that well. He has surrendered all that him longed for and for no reward again, now Jack Sparrow will go where his compass takes him, even if it be the destination him be trying to avoid. Even were I to take it back him would still travel the same road, you know that to be so."

The silent figure at her side merely looked at her.  
"I mean him na harm." Calypso protested, " him would not free me 'tis true but only because him knows me so well," she gave a small, smirking, smile that set the wave caps around the little boat dancing, "and him love me still," she purred.  
She cast a sly, sideways look at her companion's half smile, and flicked a hand,  
"Him nat born to love just one, him heart nat intended for it, nat yet, and loving me does nat mean he cannot love elsewhere too. Would you abandon him now, see him cold and drowned for his love of me?" she demanded.

Her companion remained silent but some shift in her expression caused Calypso to lean closer towards her, one shimmering hand coming to rest lightly on a golden sleeve,  
"I caan nat change what he sail towards, nor caan I master it. No more caan yout. But there may be a way. Alone we can do nothing to save him but together we can prolong his story, should we decide too. What say you Lady, shall we preserve witty Jack?"

There was a moment of silence, contemplation maybe, then the Lady inclined her head and looked out towards the little boat with its brave and tiny flag. She moved to stand with Calypso at its' prow, watching the weary, dark eyed man closely as he struggled with his unwelcome thoughts. Slowly and thoughtfully she stepped down onto the planks and moved closer to him, staring down into black lined eyes that were suddenly lost and sad.

The Lady cast one long look back towards the now silent Calypso, as if making an agreement, and then she spread her fan, tilted her head back towards Jack Sparrow, and smiled.

***

Elanor was as close to afraid as she had been at any time on the voyage so far.

Her head hurt, and stomach churned as she stood at the rail, fingers locked in a painful spasm on the shining surface. There was no reason for her to feel ill, yet she did. If she didn't know better she could almost imagine that she was seasick, but she never was seasick. The food and water were fine, she had been careful about the hot sun and had made sure that she protected herself from the worst of the winds; there was no reason for her to be ill. But there was no point in denying that she had felt much better, and not so long ago. This malaise had crept up on her with the mists and whatever it was that they were hiding. Even Ariadne was at a loss, about both the fog or where the winds were taking them. Or why she was feeling so unwell.

She had forced herself to push away the weakness long enough to allow her to check the weapons, knowing that this fog could hide any number of pirate ships or similar raiders. She had always known the risks, and thought them worth the prize, if she were destined to lose the gamble now then she would go down fighting and take as many of them with her as she could.

But there was no one to fight, and as the darkness deepened she was glad of that. The headache got worse, and her skin began to prickle, the hairs of her arm bristling. She set Ariadne to watch and collapsed by the forward mast, watching as the mist deepened, rolling in off the sea, hiding the stars and potential enemies alike.

Now it was a wall, she could see only a few feet beyond the prow and the pounding in her head was worsened by the effort of staring into a horizon she couldn't see. The Chaser ploughed on, heading for who knew where; but there really was no choice, she could stop and wait and hope that the mist dissipated yet, while she could not see who might be creeping up on her. The risks didn't seem to be worth the benefits.

How long she sat staring into the growing darkness she couldn't tell, it seemed hours but it could have been minutes. The mist seemed to be pressing closer as if it wanted to swallow her and the Chaser, and the sense of unreality deepened. She thought that she heard whispers on the wind again and saw lights, indescribable lights, in the damp blanket beyond the ship. They were only the beginning. The air seemed to come alive, twisting and turning, bending and flexing the world around her. Then the noise began, the sound of breaking glass and shrieking wind and booming surf all merged into one roaring indescribable sound, it seemed as if her ears were being assaulted by the screams of every harpy in hell.

Elanor hung on to a mast desperate to reassure herself of the reality of the world around her, her fingers stroking the wood, exploring the grain as if finding it would return the world to normality. It didn't.

Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse the lights from the depths of the mist converged on the ship, flashing around its perimeter, chasing up the masts, painting the sails in every colour of the rainbow and some that she suspected the rainbow had never seen. It was fire and lightning, star light and laser light all rolled into one and yet none of them.

Now her eyes hurt too much to be open and she buried her head in her hands trying to shut out both sound and light. The timbers of the Chaser seemed to shiver as if every atom were fighting to break free of every other, the grain magnified a hundredfold and the surface hot and cold at the same time.

For the first time she wondered if this voyage would be the death of her.

Then, impossibly, the lights grew brighter and the sound became a full howling wail, the pressure of it bruising her skin and numbing her eardrums. Out at sea the light merged into one great sheet of lightning that seemed to push the wall of the mist away from her like a giant finger. Death, it seemed, came on wings of light not darkness.

For a moment it appeared that the world was ended; there was no wind, no sea, no ship, just the barrage of sound and light and a feeling that the air itself was exploding. The Chaser seemed to hesitate for a moment, her bow sinking slightly as if snagged on some unseen reef, and Ariadne shrieked a banshee warning that Elanor couldn't hear. Then there was a flash still brighter than the rest, a scream louder than the others and the Chaser seemed to shudder from prow to stern, the desk twisting and bucking beneath Elanor's feet. The moments stretched to eternity and then the ship ploughed forward again, the bow rising up to ride the swell as if cut free from some unseen mooring line.

Suddenly the curtain of mist was spinning away from her and then there was sea and sky and stars and the world was familiar again. She had time to draw a single breath of relief, but no more than that, before the Dawn Chaser hit something.

***

Around him the mist was deepening and the wind seemed to be rising, yet the sea remained as calm as ever, it was as if he had moved beyond the human world and back to some strange land beyond the edges of the map. For a heart stopping moment Jack wondered if these past weeks, the Brethren court, the maelstrom and the battle against Beckett had all been nothing but a dream, another cruel illusion generated by the locker. Had Elizabeth and Will really rescued him? Had Barbossa truly returned from the dead to free Calypso and steal the Pearl yet again, or was it all another hallucination and was he still in the hell of Jones making? His stomach made another attempt to climb out his throat as despair gripped him, how could he ever be sure? There was no way of knowing what the locker could do, never would be. so how could he know this, or anything else, was real?

Jack dropped his hands into his lap and opened weary eyes to stare with resignation towards the horizon he couldn't see; even if he returned to Elizabeth and his father and the safety of the fortress at Shipwreck cove, or if he found and took back the Pearl, that thought would always remain with him. That and the fear that he was still dead and that none of it was real any longer.

'But that looks bloody real' his mind screamed as he saw a sudden shadow in the mist. Not just real, but also big and solid and fierce, and heading straight towards him. A ship may be, or some thing worse, it didn't really matter given that he couldn't get out of its way.

Bugger, locker or not it looked as if he was about to die again.

***

Calypso watched the vessels as they moved towards one another with a smile on her mouth and in her eyes. Give the Lady her due she could be very creative; this was not a course that would have occurred to her to plot but it achieved their ends admirably, and she could see yet other potential within it. She nodded her approval as she watched as the curtain she could not touch was drawn aside and as the strange ship, and her even stranger crew, tore through the open gateway. Many a lesson might be taught and much fun might yet be had with witty Jack and this collision of worlds. So she smoothed the waves and timed the swell to keep his little boat from the worst of the impact with the monster that had just appeared.

Calypso cast her eye over the woman riding this dragon's back. No doubt this was another of the Lady's beloveds, two birds with one stone perhaps? Though not necessarily a wise stone, not given all the implications. Calypso's smile widened, but then the Lady had always been profligate and she cared little for the effects of her actions on those others less loved. Though she, herself, could see problems ahead as the result of this she was glad of the intervention, whatever it brought, if it meant that he was given another chance.

She turned her attention fully on the other captain, her smile widening as she realised the nature of her. This woman was like her ship, strong and well disciplined and awash with hidden secrets, the shape of which Calypso could only just make out. Her laugh rang out as she watched the woman haul the stricken Jack aboard like a landed fish. No love struck, angry and rebellious child this one, Elizabeth Swann would be but a girl besides her. No this one was a lady whose heart was nearly as wild and free as Calypso's own, but one whose blood was a mite colder and whose loving was better guarded.

She watched as the pirate was laid unceremoniously on the desk, as the unnamed woman ran her hands lightly over him in search of damage, barely noticing the singularity of the man's appearance in her anxiety to know the sum of her injury to him.

Calypso moved to stand beside her as her fingers explored, feeling some small concern as she noted the foam pale face and trickling blood; much though she had loved Davy Jones she had always had a soft spot for Jack Sparrow, another reason that Jones had hated him so much. Yet there was no denying that the pirate had a lesson or two coming. Witty Jack got away with far too much when women were in the equation, and, though she felt no sympathy or sisterhood for the whores who expected him to love them as well as share their favours, she knew that he would benefit from a wider experience. She had his best interests at heart, she told herself, though that might not be how he would see it. At least not yet. No, she would not intervene to protect him from the storm he was sailing in to.

Calypso shared a secret look with the silent companion now at her side,  
"Maa compliments Lady, for finding the way," she purred, "and such a way. Seem like you achieve our objective and offer some future amusement too. 'Tis a fine ship and its captain seems a woman of my own heart. I shall enjoy watching his struggles with her."

The Lady's eyes seemed to glow within the shadow of her broad brimmed hat and her smile took on a brighter edge. Calypso laughed again as she caught the look and wondered what else the Lady had up her golden sleeve.


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Taking responsibility for one's mistakes **

The voices whispered to him in the darkness and the shadows, and sometimes on a sun lit deck. There were occasions when he thought they spoke through the mouth of his constant companion, little Jack, as he sat on his shoulder; other times it seemed that it was through the creaking timbers of the Black Pearl as she breasted the swell or the hiss of ropes as her canvas strained against the wind. At night, when the stars were high and bright against a cloud scudded sky, they seemed to speak with the voice of Calypso, words tinged with laughter and mockery carried in the slap of the water against the hull and the singing of the wind in the rigging.

The further they got from the shore the more raucous the voices became and the harder to ignore. Every decision he made seemed to set them singing louder, and each time his anger burned hotter and his worry grew deeper and harder to escape. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying but he knew that they spoke of his past and future, the choices he had made, things he had done and things that he hadn't.

All too often he thought they spoke of Jack Sparrow.

Sometimes he suspected that the crew had heard them. When he caught the sideways glances and their puzzled looks he was almost sure that the voices were whispering into their heads too, telling tales on him, lying about him and planting doubt in their minds. Weaving stories of his failures and betrayals, of mutinies past and future, of treasure, curses and dying, and of blood.

Worst of all were the times when the voices spoke with Tia Delma's voice and he looked down at his hand on the wheel or the chart or the cup and saw only bone; when the sun was suddenly replaced by a full moon and time rolled back to the days before that last confrontation with Sparrow at Isle de Muerta. Back to his death, so unexpected and so full of loss and despair. Then hope and pleasure died and all that remained was emptiness and uncertainty and a desperate and all consuming yearning for something not quite understood, something that he could no longer have. That, and the bitter knowledge that it could have been different, and the fear that worse was still to come.

A feeling that had grown stronger once they had left Mrs Turnerand Shipwreck behind and headed out towards Tortuga.

As Jack Sparrow had seemed to find himself again in that final battle with Jones so Hector Barbossa feared that he had lost himself. Calypso was free, his vow honoured, yet somehow he didn't feel that she had released him at all. She had warned him of the power of her anger and he had thrown her into the brig for her trouble, and now he was the prisoner, trapped, as she had been trapped, within a self he thought had left behind many years ago. There was no curse to be broken this time, no blood that could be spilled to give him back that which he had lost. There was nothing he could see that would release him, not now, not ever.

He had sought an ending to it in that last great storm of battle, yet despite all the provocations Calypso and her minions had not seen fit to grant it to him. He, like the others, had survived to bear the consequences of those last frantic hours.

Yet his burden seemed disproportionate, for survival had cut loose his mind from it's mooring, setting him afloat on a sea of uncertainty, confusion and alien thoughts. The memory of his death hung over him when he was awake and filled his dreams with sadness and terror on those rare times that he slept; neither rum nor opium seemed to have the power to deliver him to oblivion. He took the night watches as often as he could without raising comment and spent the times when he should have been sleeping brooding at the window of the great cabin and feeding nuts to little Jack.

He had sniped and carped at Sparrow the whole voyage without ever getting a satisfactory response, seething with rage as he had seen the understanding and calculation growing in those all too clever eyes. Only Sparrow could truly understand his desperate need to escape death, and he was the one man who might make good use of the knowledge. Jack Sparrow had no reason to wish him well, and there was no knowing what vengeance he was planning, for the man was wily enough for a barrel full of foxes however much of a fool he might be otherwise.

But then he was no longer sure that his earlier reading of Captain Sparrow was the right one; maybe he was never a fool, just a man who made very sure that he was hard to predict.

He recalled the ease with which that supposed fool had manipulated the Brethren court against him and it made for unpleasant thinking, because he knew that he would need to move very soon if it wasn't to happen again. Sparrow would use the understanding of his fears to displace his rival completely if he could just find the best way, and he would find that way if he remained aboard. Would use it eventually anyway. Leaving him behind at Tortuga was just the opening salvo in the new battle between them.

One that Hector Barbossa was no longer sure of winning.

There had been a moment of peace as the Pearl had left Tortuga behind, a feeling of almost unexpected escape as the seas opened up before them and the crew had hurried to do his bidding. For a short while he had felt satisfied that he was master of his fate again, confident that he was ahead of the game and that this time he would not have to rely on a curse to win. Yet even then there were the voices on the wind and the feeling that Sparrow was looking over his shoulder.

When the crew came and demanded to see the charts he wasn't as surprised as he should have been. Instead of sending them back to their stations with a curse, as once he would have done, he had flourished said charts and stifled the memory of a similar demand to another captain. But it seemed that captain wasn't done with him yet and he had been strangely resigned when the loss of the map was revealed. If he had been able to recognise his own relief at an excuse to return to Torgua and reclaim Jack Sparrow he might have wondered what the voices were doing to him.

Instead he had concentrated on his anger, turning the Pearl around and retiring to the great cabin to pet little Jack and fume at the perfidy of his namesake. The man he had needed to kill to best, the man who turned even that murderous act to failure somehow, and who had risen like a laughing demon to kill him far more successfully. The man whose ship he had taken, yet whose ship he had never managed to fully possess. A man for who he had only contempt, yet one who seemed to drive his fate. A man who, alone in the shadows of his night time cabin or the night watch helm, he half knew that he feared.

Jack Sparrow, an untrustworthy and devious rapscallion. A capering, drunken, lecherous fool, with no stomach for killing and no taste for a fight; a poor excuse for a pirate. Yet a man that stories collected around, one who had carved himself a legend even without the Pearl and an Aztec curse.

He had heard the stories right enough, and curled his lip in contempt at many of them. The ships stolen from under their owner's nose and without a shot fired, the merchant vessels raided and disabled but not sunk, the crews fought but not slaughtered, the towns robbed but not sacked with the prizes taken by guile rather than force. He had shaken his head and snorted with derision whenever he heard them recounted, for Jack had ever been a man to take the long way round if the short way involved what he saw as unnecessary killing. A man willing to trust the plotting of his crazy head more than the sharpness of his blade or the strength of his arm.

But, though the Black Pearl and her crew had been notorious in the days of the curse, it was Captain Jack Sparrow, Teague's wayward son, who bestrode the sailor's stories and the dockside ballads. Some fool had even written them down for the likes of Miss Swann to wonder over! The Pirate Lord whose head bore the highest price, the only one the authorities cared about enough to want proven dead. Hector Barbossa found that more than a little insulting, as if Sparrow was the yardstick by which they had all been judged and found wanting.

Jack Sparrow. A clever man 'twas true, for all his apparent foolishness. Far too clever for comfort, though it had taken him some time to realise that and it had been a bitter truth. The source, it seemed, of too many of his own past problems, and maybe now the source of future disappointments.

As the ship ploughed her way back towards Tortuga Barbossa closed his eyes against the mockery of the voices, stroked little Jack's furry head, and swore that this time Sparrow would not survive the encounter.

***

Elanor heard the explosive shattering of wood and the splash of landing debris, then there was silence except for the slapping of the waves against the ship's hull. She staggered to the rail and leaned over, in the weak light of the growing day she could see the splintered planks bobbing in the swell, and her heart sank.  
"Ariadne bring us around, and stop," she ordered with resignation, "let's see what it is that we hit."  
In the mist she could have collided with anything, all she could do was hope that it was flotsam discarded by some passing ship.

The sight of the forlorn little sail drifting aimlessly in the water robbed her of that comfort.

"Ariadne lights," she commanded. She was obeyed immediately and in the brighter light that flooded the surrounding swell it was clear that the drifting timber was all that remained of a small craft, and it was unlikely that it had been abandoned this far out. Which meant that its' owner was now lying in the water somewhere.  
"Hell!" she spat, she didn't want company but nor could she sail on as if it hadn't happened, leaving the wrecked boat's occupier, if there was one, to their fate.  
"Is there anyone out there?" she asked reluctantly.  
When the reply came back as she had feared she set herself to finding the lone figure floating amongst the driftwood.

***

The Black Pearl arrived back at Tortuga just over a day after she had sailed leaving Jack and Gibbs behind.

But Barbossa had no doubts that he would find his quarry easily enough, for it had been Jack's stated intention to celebrate his return to living, and his survival of Beckett's machinations, by visiting his favorite whores. No doubt one or other of them would be helping him and Gibbs to drown their sorrows at the Pearl's premature departure at some waterfront inn or other. What was harder was deciding what to do when he found him.

While the crew had been persuaded, with some effort and many promises, to leave Jack behind Barbossa knew that he had little hope of reconciling them to his killing. A man returned from the locker was enough cause for superstition and awe, one who had created a pirate king, fought Jones and given the Dutchman a new captain was almost untouchable. The man who had apparently bedded the sea goddess herself, and survived it, most certainly was. No they would not risk being party to killing Jack Sparrow, however nervous he might make some of them; at least not yet.

Their faith in himself and his own captaincy seemed a mite lacking at the moment it was true, so stirring them to resentment or fear now would be foolhardy. If he were to arrange for Sparrow to die then it would have to be somewhere away from the ship and the crew; though killing him in a public place would only draw attention he would rather avoid, and might even result in his own premature demise. Pirates were no fonder of a mutineer than any other sailor, certainly not one who left his captain to die. Many would have heard the story of how he acquired his Pirate Lordship too, and even if they hadn't his reputation during the days of the curse was more likely to gain him a knife in the back than any praise, even here. So unless he could manufacture a suitable fracas it was unlikely that he would get away with killing Jack and reclaiming the charts.

He was left with a bitter choice it seemed, run the risk of losing the charts, or bringing Sparrow back to the Pearl knowing that the crew would not easily abandon him again.

But he knew that he needed that chart bad, only the fountain held the hope of silencing the mocking voices and restoring his peace with himself, and for that reason he could manage to allow Jack Sparrow to live for the moment. But he would have to watch his own back very carefully, Sparrow had no taste for secret killing, no taste for killing at all if the truth be known, but there was far more steel in the man that he might once have acknowledged. Avoiding a second death at Jack's hands might be harder than he would once have thought.

Yet he had to risk it if he was to get that chart back. It seemed that he would have to learn patience; living with Jack Sparrow was, for the moment, a better option than giving up his search for the fountain.

But first he had to find him.

***

He was floating on his back and in the bright of Ariadne's light it was clear that when the Chaser had struck his tiny ship either the hull, or flying debris, had hit him. If he had collided with the hull then it was likely that he was beyond any help, but even so she had to know.

With Ariadne's assistance she brought him aboard and laid him out on the deck, noting in passing that his hair was as long as her own and his clothing somewhat bizarre. More importantly he seemed to be armed, though the weapons were child's toys, at least at first glance. Heart in her throat she pushed away a mass of soaking, tangled hair to find his throat, unsure whether she was relieved or not when she felt the firm beat of a pulse. Whatever strange events had brought him out here in a small boat it seemed that luck was with him for his neck was in one piece and there was no sign of cracks or breaks in the bones of his skull. Ariadne assured her that, though he would have a heavyweight headache when he woke up, he was in no danger of quitting this life.

Which, callous though the thought might be, left her with a problem. The floating wreckage had demonstrated how completely the Chaser had destroyed his only means of transport, and so delivering him to his destination was the least that she could do. If she was lucky that would involve no more than a few hours extra sailing. But a few hours with him aboard, a man she knew nothing about and who was unlikely to wish her well given the circumstances. A man who might feel that she owed him a boat, and not necessarily be overly concerned about the size of the boat owed.  
"Ariadne, defence level 2," she said with a sigh and headed for the medical supplies.

***

Barbossa had searched the lanes behind the waterfront with its ramshackle drinking dens and bawdy houses until sun down, certain that he would find his quarry drunk as lord and draped around some doxy or other in very establishment he entered. He had been wrong.

Nor was there any sign of Gibbs. He had apparently been seen strolling along the dockside with his arms around the waists of Jack's ladies but no one seemed very sure where he had gone to after that. Of Sparrow himself there seemed to have been no sign at all.

Eventually Barbossa had found the two women who might help him at one of the quieter inns and in the company of a well fed merchant and his captain. He had approached them politely enough with a smile and an ironic bow; their marks had not sent him on his way when he explained that he sought a missing member of his ship's company, though he had been careful to avoid any talk of what ship that was. The purchase of several drinks had eased any further suspicion the sailors might have had about his intentions, and loosed the women's tongues enough to learn that they had left Jack at the waterfront. Gibbs, they had last seen at a small hostelry, roaring drunk and likley to be thrown out within the hour.

He would have pressed them further and harder on Sparrow's intentions but the presence of potential customers sealed their mouths, and eventually his continuing presence drew the frowning attention of the landlord. A fight here would serve no purpose and so Barbossa had bitten down on the curses that clustered on his tongue and taken his leave with more grace than he would once have done.

As the sun sank below the horizon he strode back to the ship and collected Pintel and Raggetti, then the three of them had plunged deeper into the slums and brothels that backed the port, searching with growing desperation the places where even he would not go alone, pistol or no.

By dawn they were wandering the more respectable parts of town, watched by wary servants and shop keepers as they set about searching gutters and middens, asking questions at lodging houses and of any passer by who would stop to answer. But there was no joy to be had and by the time the sun was climbing the sky again they were back at the dockside staring down the frowns of the frustrated crew.  
"Gibbs will know where he is." Marty said.  
"Fine, if we could just find Gibbs." Barbossa had snapped. "If ye know where he be then please be a'tellin me because there be no sign of him either."  
"He'll be drunk somewhere," one of the others piped up.  
"We know that," Pintel growled, "what we don't know be where!"

Barbossa stalked up the plank and smiled as little Jack came down from his perch in the rat lines and sat on his shoulder, crooning what sounded to be consolation. He took a peanut from his pocket and fed it to the little monkey, then stroked the furry head with a gentle finger,  
"We'll start looking again at sun down, he may have slept his celebrations off by then and will come out in search of some pleasurable company. Ye all know Jack Sparrow, he won't stay out of sight for long, not when there be rum to be supped. We'll find him right enough, make sure we are ready to get under way as soon as he's aboard."  
On those words of false confidence he strode into the great cabin and slammed the doors.

The others just exchanged uneasy looks and went back to their tasks,

***

She got him down to the second cabin and onto the bunk with little trouble. The weapons she set upon the table, carefully out of reach, while she made a more thorough examination of his injury. His limbs were straight and unharmed, his ribs seemed to be intact and the bruising on his chest and back nothing more serious than they had first looked. However a gash several inches long extended along his brow from his temple to just above his ear and bruising was becoming visible on his forehead and cheekbones, it seemed that he was going to have a fairly spectacular black eye.

But then his eyes looked fairly black anyway. She peered more closely, a man alone at sea in a small dinghy would have little time for proper sleep it was true, but the depth of shadowing around his eyes would not have been gained in a day or two. She reached forward and wiped a finger across his eyelid, staring in surprise at her fingertip when it came away blackened. Kohl or something like, unusual these days. But then nothing about him seemed to be usual. With a sigh she settled him more securely on the bunk and began to strip him of his soaking clothes.

Not that that was a lot to remove, it appeared that he was a man who traveled light.

But each of the few items she removed deepened the mystery of him. The sodden coat had been beautiful in its' day, the fabric a wonderful mix of silk and wool that would be both lightweight and protection against the weather. The embroidery around the cuffs and buttonholes was carefully stitched and the seams were strong, but it had taken a lot of punishment and the shoulder joins were breaking, though the fabric itself showed no sign of wear or age. The same was true of the odd waistcoat, yet the sash around his waist was faded and rubbed by the wide leather belts and their very decorative buckles. His shirt told a similarly confused story, the linen was good quality and cut, and the stitch work was hand done and exquisite, but it too spoke of long and heavy wear. Once white it had faded to some indeterminate shade of pale grey, it's cuffs stained and frayed in a manner at odds with the flamboyant care of his overall appearance.

If the coat and shirt were confusing enough his breeches and undergarments were like nothing she'd ever encountered in her life, and she frowned as she stuffed them into the laundry bag. Times were very hard for many people it was true but she couldn't think of any part of the world where the use of the zip or the fastener had yet been lost.

The man himself told a story no less confusing. He was well muscled and apparently fit, the swell of his upper arm and thigh suggesting he was more than accustomed to physical work, yet he carried no spare flesh at all, the bones of his rib cage showing clear as if he had been on reduced rations for a prolonged period of time. The skin of his face, forearms, lower leg and chest were tanned bronze by sun and wind, yet the rest was ivory pale as if it rarely saw the light. Unlikely, then, that he was some errant playboy guest, or even entertainer, from a rich man's party.

As she covered him with a sheet and stuffed the pillow more comfortably under his head she wondered again who he could be, but his possessions had dispelled her greatest fear, that she had brought a raider's decoy on board. While she could think of several reasons for one of that company to be adrift in a small boat she was very nearly sure that no self respecting raider would ever be so colourfully dressed. In fact she couldn't think of anyone who would be, though if it hadn't been for his location, and the weapons tucked into those belts, she might have thought him on his way to, or from, some yacht based masked ball.

But even that flight of fancy couldn't explain the pistol and sword.

That he was so obviously armed might mean anything or nothing in the circumstances she reminded herself, and the debris had shown no sign of other, more potent, weapons. She wandered to the table and picked up the pistol, turning it around in her hands, no less amazed by it than she had been the first time. It was clearly an antique, but judging by the scratches on the stock not as carefully handled as its' apparent worth would warrant. Equally surprising was the fact that this very valuable artifact was primed and loaded, though she couldn't begin to imagine what use it would be in a fight with anyone she was expecting to meet. The same could be said of the scabbard and its' contents, a long and well worn blade, the hilt smooth with obvious and frequent use.

She reached out and drew the blade free again, touching a careful finger to the edge and wincing as it sliced the surface of her skin. Sucking on the nick she turned back to the bunk and stared down at him again, wondering who on earth would choose to be alone in these waters only armed with weapons that any museum would pay a high price for? Almost certainly no one who had a better choice. He was on the edge of deep water here, and that was risky for a man alone and in such a small boat. Either he was a very accomplished sailor, more than usually intrepid or a very desperate man. None of them options that made her feel easier about having him on board.

Had he been washed over from one of the other ships, or been forced to evacuate? But if that was the case then why hadn't Ariadne picked up his beacon? Come to think of it where was his beacon? It hadn't been amongst the wreckage. Another puzzle, as if she didn't have enough doubts about him.

She reached out and turned his arm over again. His forearm carried the biggest puzzle of them all in the shape of a brand just above his wrist; a single letter, a capital P more than an inch high and wider than her finger. It was well healed and of some age but it didn't have a look of something anyone would choose for themselves. Which meant it had been done to him, another discomforting thought, that someone had felt strongly enough about him to do that.

No, on balance the story his person told was not one of someone who could be easily discounted, so she would need to treat him with caution. The headache waiting for him would be bad enough and waking in a strange place was not likely to do much for his temper, best to make sure that he didn't feel unnecessarily threatened. The loaded pistol and the sharpened sword gave testimony to the fact that he was prepared to fight, and probably to kill, to defend himself. While she couldn't take issue with that willingness she could wish that if the Chaser had to collide with anything it hadn't been him and his little boat.

***

As dawn took a grip of the waterfront they set out again to search for Jack or Gibbs. This time luck smiled on them and a chance question to a tired fisherman, seated on a coil of rope and mending nets, brought the information they needed, and the last thing that Barbossa had wanted, or expected, to hear.

It appeared that Sparrow was indeed a hard man to predict, instead of skulking in some flea bitten hostelry swilling rum, or tumbling some equally flea ridden whore in a dingy doss house, as expected, he had taken to the sea almost as soon as he knew the Pearl was gone. Seemed he had taken a small boat, bought or stolen it wasn't clear, some basic rations and a little water and rum and had set off on some unknown course and unspecified quest. Unknown to the occupants of Tortuga that was.

Barbossa felt a shadow move across the sun as he stared out across the bay towards the horizon. Jack Sparrow was a good sailor, maybe even a great one when sober and suitably motivated, but something told him that events were about to take a turn for the worst for them all. He could remember a little detail from Sao Feng's chart, not enough to navigate to their goal but enough to recall that the route would pass across some deep and unpredictable waters. Not waters any sane man would want to face in a small and fragile boat with little food or water to hand. If Jack went down then the chart went with him, and with it all chance of finding the fountain or any other of the treasures it had shown. A drowned Sparrow was not worth the loss of the hope that chart had offered and he cursed himself for allowing his dislike of the man to outweigh their best interests.

If Sparrow was lost then he could no longer be sure of his own position as the Pearl's captain. Already he could see the resentment in Pintel's eyes, and in his head he could hear the taunts of his cursed crew as he stood atop a pile of useless gold. Abandoning Sparrow had been a mistake then, it had become clear, it seemed that it was no less of a mistake now.

But 'twas done. All that remained to him was to take measures to recover what was lost as quickly as could be managed.

With a brief nod to the fisherman he strode away leaving Pintel and Raggetti to stumble along in his wake, if they put to sea before dusk they should still have some hope of catching their quarry before he strayed too far into danger.

He would think about what he would do if they didn't when it happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**3: The weirdness begins**

His first thought was that he was back on the Pearl.

How he came to be there was more than a little hazy though; either he had dreamed Barbossa's second mutiny or he had taken his ship back in a manner that he couldn't quite remember. But the how didn't seem to be all that important, not for the moment. The vague awareness that his head was trying to hurt possibly explained both the uncertainty and his lack of concern. Maybe he been celebrating, rum rarely gave him a headache but it could be that he'd been drinking brandy, or some other inferior beverage. Barbossa's hoard no doubt.

Yes, that would explain it. He had taken the Pearl back and had been celebrating being home again.

On that comfortable thought he wriggled against the softness of the bed for a moment, shifting his head slightly in an attempt to ease the vague ache in his neck. The movement stirred a flash of some new and indefinable concern, but he was too tired to chase the elusive thought. With a mental shrug he let it go and fell back into blackness.

***

The Black Pearl left Tortuga as the sun began to sink behind the horizon and the smell of cooking took hold of the heavy, humid air. Around her the fishing boats came and went, and an incoming merchantman gave her a nervously wide birth as it headed for the comparative safety of the quay. Above the masts the clouds were gathering as an evening storm summoned its' forces, and the wind blew stronger into the patched black canvas.

Barbossa watched as the sheets were unfurled, pushing her faster out of the bay and towards the open sea, when they had found the fountain there would be time and opportunity aplenty to make repairs to the damage. Once they found the fountain, and that had better be soon.

The atmosphere on deck was as threatening as the skies, though not perhaps in the way that would once have been the case. This time the threat was for things far closer to home. Barbossa could feel the mood of the crew shifting like the gathering clouds, yet he could find neither the will nor the energy to forestall the coming squall, not yet a storm but uncomfortable for all involved none the less.

He had tried to ignore Pintel's aggressive glare and Raggietti's sly sideways glances, there was no point in facing trouble before you were sure that it's sword point was headed at your belly, but he had heard them muttering to the newer members of his crew and he had little doubt about what they had been saying. Or the stories they had been telling. Mind skipping back to the days of the curse, as it seemed to do so often now, he wondered again where the man he had been then had gone to. Even the man who had marooned Jack Sparrow seemed lost to him now. Between the voices and the memories it was hard to know just who he was any longer, and he was very much afraid that it was going to get worse. Calypso was planning on having her sport with him in full measure no doubt.

Since he had left Jack behind new recollection had stirred, pictures of the world he had inhabited before Tia Delma had called him back to break her own curse. Sometimes they were pale shadows, ghosts, but numerous enough to come between him and the world his eyes could see. At times he wasn't even sure which world he was seeing any longer, the world of the living or the half recalled world of the dead. Yet even half recalled it set his heart racing and the fires of anxiety burning in his blood; he would do all that was in his power to avoid returning there, yet that very anxiety had cost him his only means of escape.

Taking the Pearl again had been his last act of defiance, his final shot at reclaiming who he thought was from whom he feared he was becoming; but it had failed, or so it seemed, and now he was as adrift as a rudderless ship. His will was being bled away by the passage of the days, and like an insect trapped in amber he looked out helplessly on a world that he could see but somehow couldn't touch. His only respite was the time he had was with little Jack, feeding him the nuts that seemed to appear in his pockets from nowhere.

He stood at the helm all night, lookouts had been posted fore and aft and every lamp had been lit, but there had been no sign of Jack Sparrow or his little boat. In the growing light of the dawn the sea was empty and the horizon shrouded in mist, and though Barbossa schooled his face to impassivity inside him the tension mounted, the screw tightening with every passing hour. The loss of that chart had already cost him dear, and would cost him dearer still if they didn't find Sparrow soon. He didn't need the voices whispering in his head to tell him that his mastery of his fate was seeping away again when he could see it at the backs of the eyes of the men around him. Like sharks circling a stricken ship they were watching him, waiting for another mistake, or for another captain. So he stayed on deck as day arrived, watching them back, barking orders to remind them who he was and wondering what he would do when they told him nay.

Not for the first time Barbossa wished that Gibbs has not been so loyal to Jack. With him as mate the situation would be far less dangerous, drunken sot the man might be but he knew how to hold a crew together. Something else to despise Jack Sparrow for, friend was not a word, should not be a word, in a pirate's vocabulary. So why then did he feel such bitter envy for the fact that Gibbs the then Pearl's crew had returned, against the code, to reclaim Jack from the noose?

As the last star faded before the power of the sun he stared down at the decks with calculation in his eyes and his hand on his pistol butt. Below him all seemed as it should be, but he could feel the anticipation in the air as keenly as he could taste the salt on the wind. They were waiting for something right enough, yet they scurried to enact his orders readily. For the moment they seemed unwilling to act against him and only Pintel was truly spoiling for a fight, but then when wasn't he? While Raggetti remained uncertain even he would avoid the confrontation. Yet that could not hold forever.

With an impatient curse he stormed up the deck to the forward lookout,  
"What be ye seeing? Any sign of Sparrow?" he demanded.  
The lad shook his head,  
"Na sign of anyting captain.  
"Aye, well, keep a sharp eye, he can't be so far ahead of us now."  
"Not if this is right heading anyways."  
Raggetti's voice came from behind him.

Barbossa turned slowly to stare at his crewman. The man's one good eye slid away leaving the new wooden eye staring blankly at him, but his posture suggested that he was testing something. Barbossa felt a sudden urge to pull his pistol and blow that dead stare through the back of its' owners head, but his hand refused to move. Instead he heard his own voice replying as if from a long way away,  
"That be true acourse. What ye be knowing that the rest of us don't, Master Raggetti, that you think it might not be?"  
Raggetti seemed to shrink further away from him, though he didn't move.  
"Nothin captain."  
"Aye I thought not. So we'll be afollowing this course until we be assured that it's the wrong one."  
With that he turned and stomped back to the helm.

He could feel Raggetti's eyes on him as he went, could feel the speculation in them, and he knew that something, or someone, would give before sunset.

***

Elanor had returned to check on her unexpected and unwelcome passenger at hourly intervals as the morning crawled by. Twice she lifted his wrist to check his pulse and both times he muttered something she couldn't catch and feebly pulled at his arm until she released him. A new thought occurred to her, what if he spoke no English? How was she to communicate with a hurt and probably angry man without a common language? With a sigh she had returned to Ariadne and started a search for suitable translation.

A further study of the charts had provided no real indication of where he had come from or where he might be going to; and, for once, Aridane was unwilling to hazard any guesses. So the Chaser remained at anchor while her captain railed at the loss of time. She had been well ahead of the rest, and there was no sign of them as yet, but her lead was being steadily eroded every minute she remained here. Even so she was unwilling to resume her course if it meant backtracking, or keeping him onboard for a second longer than she had to.

At mid day she had prepared a meal and taken her plate to sit at his bedside in the hope that the smell of food might bring him to his senses. But though he had rolled over and muttered under his breath, it sounded like 'peanut' though she couldn't imagine why it would be, his eyelids didn't even flicker. She had tried coffee next, but while that stirred a slight twitch of his nose it brought him no closer to consciousness. With a sigh she had straightened the sheet and pillow, brushed the tangled braids away from the dressing on his forehead and left him to sleep.

She spent the first part of the afternoon up on deck, taking the opportunity to tackle some of the more delicate maintenance tasks. Once she moved she would have to cover a lot of water fast if she was to regain her advantage, and there would be no opportunity to do the work under those conditions. Even so the delay was like a thorn pricking at her skin and her eyes kept drifting to the slowly dipping sun, willing the man below to wake up and break the hiatus. But by late afternoon it was clear that her visitor had no intention of waking soon, and, unwilling to lose all her lead, Elanor had reluctantly weighed anchor and resumed her planned course. She was loath to lose more time than she had to, even if it meant a longer detour later.

Yet some feeling of unease niggled at her and she found she was holding canvas and moving more slowly than she needed to, avoiding venturing too far from where she had found him.

***

His second thought was that while he was on a ship it wasn't the Pearl. Or if it was then Barbossa had been doing something bloody strange in his cabin, because he didn't recall it ever smelling like this. But then he didn't recall any ship he had ever been on smelling like this, no tar, no lamp oil, no miasma of the bilges, no salt. He frowned but did not open his eyes, how could a ship not smell of the sea!

But it was a ship, he was sure of that because he could feel from the movement of the bed that he was at sea and that the waves were beneath a hull of some form.

So maybe he had taken another ship and was chasing the Pearl. Yes, that might work. The feeling that his head was trying to tell him something important was still there but he felt strangely lethargic and disinclined to listen to it. Some warning sense pulled at his exhausted mind but it wasn't strong enough to overcome the desire to stay where he was. There was no need to fear for the moment, his most pressing enemies were gone and Gibbs would watch his back. The crew would rouse him when they caught up with the Pearl, until then he could get some of the sleep he had missed these last weeks.

Jack sighed deeply and let sleep win.

***

It was early in the evening when she went back down to the cabin again. He was still asleep, but he had moved at some time because the long hair, now dry, was splayed against the pillow, and among the thick, dark, tresses a number of ornaments were visible. While the braids and dreadlocks were not so unexpected as to be extraordinary this additional decoration was. She reached out and fingered the string of beads closest to his face, turning the charm suspended from it towards the light. It looked like a coin, but not one that was familiar, and she made a note to herself to check it with the databases to see if it told her anything more about him.

With a sigh she let the charm drop back into his hair, she wouldn't need to bother if he would just wake up, but he showed no sign of doing that. Maybe that wasn't so surprising though, he had received a nasty bang to his head and close to she could see the fatigue etched in his face, it looked as if it had been a long time since he had slept properly. As she watched he started to stir, turning his head on the pillow, his hands moving restlessly against the sheet; he muttered something that she couldn't quite make out, but for some reason she felt it was both a name and a protest. For a moment his lashes seem to flutter as if he would open his eyes, then he fell silent, his roving hands coming to rest across his belly. With a small sigh he seemed to settle himself deeper into the bunk, easing his head against the pillow as if seeking a more comfortable position. He took a deep breath, exhaled on a sigh and seemed to sink still deeper into sleep.

He stayed that way as she took his pulse again, even her checking of the dressing produced no response other than another sigh and a further resettling of his head.  
"Ariadne," she called impatiently, "how much longer is he likely to be out?"  
"There is not sufficient information for accurate predication," the irritatingly composed voice replied.  
"Rough estimate will do," she huffed, there were times when a little companionable emotion might be nice.  
"Some hours. He shows signs of a deep and prolonged fatigue, it is unlikely that he would wake soon even were he not injured."  
Elanor stared at him in frustration,  
"Could I wake him safely? I need to know how much of a detour I'm going to have to make."  
"It would not be advised and might yield no benefit for the risk, the blow to his head coupled with fatigue may prevent him giving any coherent information even were he to wake."

She watched at the man for a moment longer before getting abruptly to her feet, baring her teeth in a non smile at him,  
"I hope you aren't this irritating when you are awake," she hissed, and returned to the deck.

***

The winds were light and progress was slow but as the sun climbed high there was no denying that they should have sailed beyond Jack's likely range, yet there had been no sign of him. The tension on board the Pearl was growing, stretching like wet linen, its' tautness written in the faces around him. Barbossa tried to ignore it and stood in silence staring at the empty sea. But Tia Delma's words still echoed in his head, forcing him to clasp his hands behind him lest he see corruption he was sure was there. The seas were calm and the earlier mists were gone yet the feeling that they were sailing into a storm persisted. Or maybe the shadow of a storm already passed.

It seemed he was to be proved right about that when they came upon the driftwood.

"Looks like it was a boat," Marty said, casting a quick look at his captain as he hauled the splintered remnants of a dingy's mast on to the deck.  
"Aye, that it does," Barbossa agreed, "but there be no indication that it had aught to do with Jack Sparrow."  
Pintel glowered at him from the other side of sodden flotsam,  
"and none that it's not," he growled.  
Raggetti stared at his friend nervously as if shocked by his sudden temerity.

Barbossa felt his belly tighten but his reply came out calm and assured enough,  
"Aye that also be true, so we better be a'making sure gentlemen."  
He raised his voice a trifle,  
"Come about Mr Cotton, let's be a seeing see what else there is to find."  
He looked back to Marty with a slight smile,  
"'Tis unlikely that he would sink his boat in such calm water, even with too much rum, but then with Sparrow you can never be sure."  
He saw a glower in the faces that turned away from him and his hand dropped with elaborate nonchalance to his pistol butt.

As it was only Pintel pressed an attack,  
"If he has then the charts is gone with him, and where does that leave us? You promised us the fountain if we left captain Jack behind, now see where it's led us." Pintel seemed to grow more challenging by the second.  
Barbosa pretended not to notice and merely smiled again, but his fingers caressed the pistol in obvious warning,  
"Jack's nary so easy to kill, he's safe enough somewhere and the charts be with him. Even so, if this be a boat t'would be foolish not to find out whose and were they went. There might be other profit in it. Do ye not think?"  
For a moment it seemed that Pintel might have yet more to say, but Raggetti put his hand on his arm and tugged him away. The others watched the two go then turned to stare at Barbossa as if measuring him. This time he found his temper from somewhere and snapped,  
"Well, what ye be awaiting for, ye scurvy sons of whores. Bring us about."  
Though they muttered and whispered amongst themselves they did as he commanded.

Barbossa turned away and stepped towards the rail clasping his hands tightly behind him again. The waves caps danced before his eyes, white as the bone of his dead hand, he closed his eyes and pretended that he couldn't see.

***

As the sun reddened she left the Chaser to Aridane's control and went down to the galley and prepared another meal, once again she took it to eat at the side of the still unconscious or sleeping stranger. She wasn't sure which, nor for that matter was Ariadne, either way he gave no sign that he was aware of her presence. Not even when she reached out and straightened the sheet, her fingers brushing his skin as she pulled it higher up his chest; nor when she changed his pillow for one unmarked by salt water and kohl. Short of actually shaking him awake there was little else she could do, and shaking him awake might result in those tar stained and beringed hands finding their way around her throat and precipitating a confrontation she would really rather not have. Not yet at least.

With a sigh she rose and headed back to the galley,  
'might as well what I can do with his clothes while he is still asleep' she thought as she deposited the detritus of her meal in the bin, 'demonstrate my good intentions.'

She shook the small pile of clothing onto the table and began to search for a cleaning label. The coat was lined in silk that showed more evidence of its' heavy wear, but there was no label or identifying mark at all. Further intrigued she was about to put it to one side when she felt the bulk of something in an inner pocket, her curious fingers explored the shape of it carefully before she pulled it free, maybe this was the reason for his presence out here.

It proved to be a rolled up document of some kind, not paper, it was too rough and fibrous for that, and old, judging by its appearance. With care she opened it out, staring in disbelief at the delicate chart that was revealed. If his weapons were antique this looked to be ancient, ancient and very, very valuable if it were the real thing. Carefully she spread it out on the table her smoothing fingers discovering that parts of it moved, turning like a kaleidoscope to make new views and patterns. Beautiful and strange, but it provided no answers, at least not without its' owner to explain it. The rough edges made her wonder about the appropriateness of the word 'owner' though, they had the look of something newly cut and why would he do that if he had any right to it? So maybe that explained it, he was a thief who had robbed a museum somewhere and had been in the process of escaping when she had hit him.

An armed thief, another uncomfortable thought!  
"Ariadne," she instructed with a frown, "defence level three."

But on reflection that made no sense either. A professional thief, and to get into the type of museum that would hold such an artefact these days he had to be a very professional thief, would hardly trust his escape to a small dingy in the open seas. Maybe not a thief then but a law officer recovering stolen goods. But then the same held true for that.

With a sigh she searched the rest of the small pile of clothing before putting it into the laundry unit, then she gathered up the chart and carefully laid it alongside the pistol and the sword in the strong room. Finally she returned to the cabin and took another look in on the sleeping man, now curled up on his side with one hand pushed under the pillow; then, when she was sure he was still asleep, she returned to the helm.

***

His third thought was that he was on the Dutchman, but as captain or passenger that was the question wasn't it? Dead or alive, captain or crew?

Captain he decided, he was lying on a bed, he knew that, so it had to be as captain. He felt his spirits lift, taking wing on the realisation that he was free forever, free and safe from the locker. Oh there would be work, duties to perform, but when was there not? William might not have understood the reality of a pirate captain's life but Jack Sparrow most certainly did. Responsibility, well that was not so appealing, but he taken that before, sought it out if he recalled correctly, much to his fathers' disgust and anger. He could do it again if that was what he needed to do to be free to sail the seas forever. He would do the job and not make Jones' mistakes.

'No', something reminded him, 'William's the Dutchman's captain now. You made him so.'  
He moved his head restlessly on the pillow,  
'What? Why did I do that?' he thought, 'Oh yes. I remember. Pity really but nothing else for it.' Not if he wanted to live forever with himself. Like Teague.

Teague. That was one boon, the long postponed meeting with his father had taken place without it killing one or other of them, or both of them come to that. So at least something had come out of that disastrous Court. After the battle it almost seemed as if the Keeper had forgiven him for forsaking the brethren for the other side of the law. Somehow he didn't think it was that easy, nothing involving his father and he ever was.

Somewhere grief stirred with that memory but he couldn't quite remember why, he knew that for the moment he didn't want to remember why. There were many things that could not be faced in the aftermath of battle, but he knew that there was something that he was going to have to square one day. Just not now.

But the thought had set his head aching again and there was a pain seeping though him that he couldn't quite place. Jack eased his shoulders against the bed feeling the darkness around him deepen as he did so, he wondered fleetingly why it was so quiet as he slipped back over the edge of the world.

***

They had searched for hours and had little to show for it.

A bottle found bobbing on the waves, half filled with rum it was true but otherwise uninformative; it might have been Jack's or it might not. A water cask was found next, still nearly full, but it could have come from any port in the Caribbean and been lost from any ship passing in the last month. More driftwood, little more than matchsticks tossed here and there by the swell and telling no more story than their first find.

But the story that it did tell was not one Barbossa wanted to hear.

Whatever had destroyed this little boat had been big, for it had not so much smashed it as exploded it. Only the absence of burn marks persuaded Barbossa that it hadn't been cannon fire. He had picked up one of the larger pieces and turned it around in his hand, no fish had done this and it would take a much heavier sea than was likely for it to have been the result of a the juxtaposition of a small boat on open water. So what had done it, and did it matter? A shiver ran up his back and the voices shrieked in his ear, how could it not matter?

The crew had huddled around each new find, passing them around and putting into words what Barbossa did not want to face, if this had been Jack's boat then he was at the bottom of the sea again and their quest for the fountain was over before it began.

Little Jack had come to sit on his shoulder, chattering in his ear and pulling at his coat. Barbossa felt his mouth lift in a smile as he pulled a peanut from his pocked and held it out to the tiny hand reaching hand, the smile widened as the leather soft fingers took it delicately and nibbled at it happily. A second nut followed the first, and Barbossa found himself crooning to the little monkey,  
"there then who's a clever boy, who's a good, clever boy,"  
The monkey chattered in pleasure and third nut appeared between his fingers.

If only the other Jack had been so easily pacified.

The smile froze like a rictus as he watched Marty hold up the most recent salvage; a flag, and a small and ridiculous flag. The wreckage might have been anyone's, the death story of any unfortunate caught in a small boat in a large sea, but the bird staring jauntily from this scrap of cloth told him all too clearly just who that unfortunate had been.

It told the rest of the crew too.

***

He was in a dingy on the open sea, and he knew that he was heading towards the Fountain of Youth and waiting for Barbossa to catch him. Below the blue waters the Kracken watched him, its' eyes sad and sorrowful, tentacles waving forlornly at him as if asking for forgiveness.

He reached out and touched one suckered limb, 'no need mate' he whispered, for he had found that he could forgive on that beach; it had done only what it was in its' nature to do, he had done what was in his nature to do and they were square. For a moment it stared at him, as if reading the thought in his eyes, and then the tentacle was drawn away, slowly stroking his face as it went. With a final wave it was gone and he watched it swim away, down to the blacker waters and the man who waited for it.

Alone again he wondered how long it would take to be able to forgive others, though he knew he must make some attempt if he was to survive. He had given up his future for that attempt and now he was alone. Alone in the fog on a becalmed sea.

Then suddenly he wasn't alone, the fog rolled up carrying another monster at its' heart.

He cried out once as the world exploded.

***

While Ariadne was more than capable of sailing the Chaser Elanor preferred to do as much herself as was sensible. There was something deeply satisfying in steering herself towards the horizon; it was why she was doing this, why she was where she was. Normally she found it as comforting as anything in her life, but today it failed to have its usual soothing effects. For very good reasons too, a lot of them. The stars.

No amount of staring could change the fact that somehow she wasn't quite where she had expected to be.

Which made no sense, unless she had drifted further than she thought in that wretched fog. The idea had unsettled her again and she had hurried to consult with Ariadne, to check her bearings and determine just how far from her planned course she now was, and what would be best to steer to get back on track.

Which was when the weirdness really started.

***

Light poured in on him, seeping behind his eyelids and pushing sleep away. He sighed and tried to settle back into the comfort of the darkness and the softness of the bed, but the very feel of it jolted him fully awake.

Bed. Soft. Bed.  
How?  
Whose?

He kept still and listened. Nothing. Carefully he slid a hand across the surface of the bed, only breathing out when his hand found the edge. No one there. Narrow, not a bed after all, a bunk. Now that was strange, given how soft it was. And why was he lying in a bunk anyway? He'd been in a dingy, he was sure he had been. No bunks in a dinghy, soft or otherwise.

With a silent curse he sat up, then quickly laid back down as his stomach rose in protest at the movement and his head finally managed to attract his attention. Apparently all it had wanted to do was tell him how much it bloody hurt.

Jack cursed again, what had he been drinking? Not even Barbossa's deplorable taste would have encompassed the sort of stuff that would result in this kind of headache. With a groan he raised his hand to his head, his eyes flew open despite the raging pain as his tentative fingers met not his familiar scarf but what felt to be some kind of bandage. The light seemed to lance his eyeballs with a red hot poker and he groaned aloud and closed them tight again. He didn't need to see to think.

Bandage. Hurt? No he hadn't been hurt. Well not recently, at least not that he remembered. Jones had hit him with a few nasty blows it was true but he was sure he had been awake since then. But something was wrong, something he had to see to fathom, or so his tortured head was insisting.

Carefully he opened his eyes again slitting them against the pain, examining his own hand with care. So what else was wrong? Still had his hand and all his fingers, rings were there. No glove though. That seemed to be part of the problem; he closed his aching eyes and thought about his hand aimlessly for a second or two. Then he realised, hand, arm, but no shirt. He opened his eyes to check but the light was bright, too bright and he closed them again quickly.

With a deep breath he swallowed down on his nausea and moved his legs carefully, that he could feel them was a relief given the bandage, in fact he could feel more of them than he should. The touch of the sheet was nice, soft and clinging, stroking almost, but it was stroking too much flesh. No breeches. He moved a little more, and then he froze in another sudden realisation, no shirt, no breeches, no clothes. Naked, he was naked. Oh.

With a head like this that was probably not good.

Slowly and with infinite care he rolled over to the side of the bunk, squinting against the pain as he searched the floor for his errant attire. Nothing. He concentrated harder and let his eyes rove as far as they could without the need to move his head, normally his breeches would be on the floor within his reach, this time however they didn't appear to be. Oh.

Swallowing hard on the bile surging in his throat he concentrated on the floor, maybe it would tell him where he was. But the floor didn't look like any bawdy house or tavern room that he could recall, not even in Singapore. Smooth wood, polished, beautiful wood, and very costly looking wood. Ah.

With elaborate care he rolled over to his other side. Wall, smooth wall, coloured wall, unfamiliar but costly looking wall. Oh.

Carefully he rolled onto his back again, feeling the softness of the mattress as it shifted beneath him, not quite like anything he could remember lying on before. He realised he had been holding his breath again and let it out on a deep sigh. So, to take stock; expensive bed, expensive floor, expensive walls. He listened to the story of the movement of the bunk for a moment then squinted up at the smooth white bulkhead above him, expensive ship.

No clothes. No memory of how he came to be on the expensive ship without said clothes.

Bugger, what had he got himself into this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - fancy that - or the weirdness continues**

"What do you mean that it's not there?" Elanor demanded in exasperation.  
"Satellite communication has been lost. Review of all systems shows no error, communication has been lost because of an absence of satellite signal. Further investigation suggests that the target satellite is no longer in orbit or is dysfunctional." Ariadne responded calmly.

Elanor thought about that for a moment; maybe that strange fog had been linked to some form of atmospheric happening, a magnetic storm perhaps, or a solar flare. Though she was sure that none had been forecast. She gave a mental shrug, it wouldn't be the first time they had got it wrong; still it wasn't that important given that there were other options, even if they were expensive ones,  
"Switch to Astradec and confirm position and atmospheric conditions at the helm," she instructed and rose to leave.

"Astradec communications link cannot be established," came the infuriatingly calm voice just as she was about to close the door,  
"What!" she hurried back to the console as Aridane obligingly repeated the information.  
It took a moment or two for that to sink in fully, and she didn't think that she liked the implications whatever they were. Astradec was always accessible, it was shielded, that was what it was for and why using it was so expensive.  
"Astradec must be accessible," she muttered leaning back in her seat. "Check uplink and retry."  
The moments ticked by unnoted until Ariadne replied,  
"Uplink status is confirmed as functional. No link can be established, Astradec is not responding."  
She thought about that carefully, her anxiety at a level she couldn't quite explain, before slowly instructing,  
"OK, establish link with any sat available, use verification protocol three to agree payment where requested."  
Aridane agreed, then fell silent.

But five minutes later she was reporting the impossible.

"No sat connection at all?" Elanor demanded in disbelief.  
"Negative,"  
"Why? Hypothesis please."  
"Data is insufficient, but scans suggest that there is no satellite traffic of any kind taking place at this moment in time. Nor is there any radio signal that can be detected. Long range scans show no satellite in orbit at any level that can be detected from this range."  
Elanor sat and stared at the console in confusion, Aridane's scanners were powerful enough to detect low orbit sats, even if not the higher ones. It made no sense. Why could they find nothing when Earth's orbit was littered with the damn things!

Finally she had initiated an all systems check and gone back to staring at the stars while she thought.  
Those thoughts were not comfortable, first a man who was where he shouldn't be, and now things that weren't where they should be. While she was quite capable of navigating without an uplink that in no way explained why she should have to. The strange mists had been left behind many hours ago but it seemed that the weirdness continued, yet she could no rational reason why it should.

When her tail chasing thoughts came close to driving her mad she went below to check on what, for the moment, and quite unreasonably even to her own mind, she saw as the source of the problem.

***

"He's dead. Captain Jack is dead! We shouldn't have left him, now see what's happened." Raggetti sounded almost distressed.  
He was knelt on the deck clasping the sodden scrap of cloth in his hands, twisting it one way then the other as if to wring the sea from it. Beside him Marty stared at the little flag in silent shock and on the rail Cotton's parrot shrieked something that couldn't be deciphered.  
"Taking the chart with him." Pintel snarled as he stared up at Barbossa from his place on the deck beside Raggetti.  
Around them the others glowered and muttered, pressing in close and threatening on their captain.  
"Don't be a fool," Barbossa responded, his hand going to his sword hilt as a matter of reflex, "Sparrow is nay so easy to kill."  
He looked around him with distain, the thought that had been rattling around in his brain for the last day suddenly falling still and clear, bitterly clear.  
"She'll not let him die, not yet. She isn't finished with us. None of us."

The men drew back a little at that, many sending quick and fearful glances at the calm sea surrounding them. None of them doubted who the 'she' he spoke of was.

Barbossa saw their uncertainty and drew a deep and steadying breath before pressing his fragile advantage. He looked down at the three clustered on their knees around the finds and addressed himself to them,  
"Ye saw them together in the locker, I wager there's been more than just a curse between the two of them. She'll not let him die, not Jack Sparrow."  
He could hear the anger in his own voice, just as he could hear her laughter in his head, but he also saw the sudden fear in their eyes. After a moment he looked up and nodded slowly at the other faces clustered around him,  
" A woman scorned he called her and so she be. Jones betrayed her and Jones wanted Sparrow dead, she'll keep him safe for naught more than that."

That drew some more mutters and a few reluctant nods; slowly some of the threat seeped away from the situation. Barbossa dropped his hand from his sword and struggled to block the taunting voices from his mind; with a casual gesture he indicated the shattered wood that littered the deck,  
"Aye gentlemen, this be his boat perhaps, but I'll swear on pain of the locker that she didn't let Sparrow go down with it. The Pirate Lords imprisoned her and she will want her revenge now Jones is dealt with, ye can be sure she has some role in that for us all, including Jack."  
He looked out at the open seas beyond the Pearl,  
"Nay, Sparrow didn't perish I'm sure of that. So be ye if ye but consider it, he be out there somewhere, free and safe and in possession of our chart."

"So how do we find him?" Pintel demanded.  
Barbossa concealed the relief that washed though him, for though the crew man's voice was hostile the question made it clear that he was admitting his captain's authority, for the moment at least. The others would accept that.  
Barbossa nodded genially enough,  
"Aye that be the question now." He shot a hard look around him, " He'll be aheading for the fountain, and for the moment it seems like he be without a ship of his own. Knowing Jack he will try and persuade whoever picked him up to take him where he wants to go, so we sail in the general direction and keep a sharp eye out for likely vessels on the way."

He saw the uncertainty in the eyes watching him and knew that he was winning, for the moment at least, so he nodded again and smiled a cold, thin smile,  
" We'll find him matey's. It will take him time to get his hosts to dance to a tune of his piping, that gives us a chance."  
Little Jack jumped to his shoulder and chattered in excitement. Barbossa raised one hand to stroke the monkey's head, his voice hardening,  
"So back to your stations all 'o ye, we've water to cover and we've wasted enough time on speculating about Jack Sparrow's misadventure. Time to set about findin' him and whatever fool Calypso had pick him up. Because there was one, mark my words."

***

From the prow of the Pearl Calypso watched Barbossa and his crew, hearing his words of false confidence, seeing the uncertain looks they exchanged as they turned back to their duties. Her laugh was hidden in the wind,  
"Barbossa him learn a little, but nat enough. Nat yet, maybe never."  
She turned to the silent figure at her side,  
"Wilt they find him Lady? Is that wise? Tere waas much about tat saviour ya brought him tat is strange. Should ya risk tat to Barbossa's canons?"  
She looked back toward the deck and nodded towards the man standing at the rail,  
"Barbossa would like ta see witty Jack dead, for he fears what he caanat understand, and despises that which nat be himself; and though the world of the dead is still working on him he be a mutineer at heart even now."

The Lady turned her head and gazed at the sea goddess for a moment, before indicating the horizon with one graceful wave of her hand. The gemstone glow of her eyes seemed to deepen as she watched the clouds building where the sea met sky, Calypso followed her look and her smile widened,  
"The fountain? Aye they both waant tat bad they do naat understand it and waat it exacts as payment."  
She turned narrowed eyes to her companion.  
" But waat be it tat interest you so Lady? Be it part of another game ya play?"

The Lady's fan flashed in the sun and she tilted her head towards the sky.

Calypso's smiled widened, and her hand closed briefly on the golden sleeve,  
"So be it Lady. Ya play long games ta be sure, and always have; tis little wonder taat witty Jack be so loved. I'll ask for na more answers for now but sit and watch the play."  
She looked back at the ship, and the man staring at the horizon, and her smile became grim,  
"Between us we will get the Pearl to where she needs ta be and safely, but tere is no need for it ta be easy. Is there?"

The silent Lady merely nodded her head.

***

The pain in his head refused to give way and the waves of nausea tried to pin him to the bed, but the nagging worry of where he was and how he came to be there eventually overcame the both of them. 'When was he ever going to be granted any peace.' he asked himself wearily, 'what did a man have to do to earn his self a little respite?'

One hand clasped to his head, to stop it falling off as it seemed like to do, Jack rolled over and dropped his feet to the ground. The wood of the deck felt slightly warm as if it had been in the sun, yet a careful look around the cabin through pain narrowed eyes told him that there was no window. So no sun then, other than the strange small one that burned in the bulkhead above him that was. Carefully he extended his arm above his head and reached towards it, but, though it seemed to be the source of light in this small room, it gave off no heat. How could that be? Even a candle gave some warmth and the light of this strange candle was greater than anything he had ever seen, other than the sun.

Something at the back of his weary brain told him that this light, bright and yellow yet as cold as the stars, might be important, but the waves of pain drove the thought into hiding and he sank his head into his hands and groaned.  
'No', his pirate self told him sharply, 'no sound, no matter what the pain, no sound. Not until you know who, and what, it is you have to deal with. There will be time enough for pain when you are free, until then put it to the side as you've done before.'  
But that was easier said than done when the hurting was getting between him and thinking. In the past the pain had been elsewhere, where it was easier for his head to ignore it, now it was his mind it was flaying not his body, and that was much harder to command.

Still he would not give way to it, though all he really wanted was to fall back into the softness of the bunk and into the arms of the comfortable darkness that he knew still waited for him. He could lie down for a few moments more, surely that would do no harm?  
'No.' the pirate commanded, 'how long you have been here already? Get up, find out what it is you are facing this time.'  
He looked down at his bare feet against that warm deck, facing without clothes too.

That thought triggered another, where were his clothes? Perhaps more importantly where were his effects? Being in a strange place without clothes was one thing, being there without weapons was quite different, and of far more concern. No amount of rum had ever caused him to lose those before. The brand on his arm meant that he was never safe, no matter where he was or whom he was with, not without weapons. Clothes could wait but a means of defending himself could not.

Stifling another groan he staggered to his feet, fingers still pressed to the bandage on his brow. The room tilted crazily but he remained upright, though he had to reach for the wall with his other hand to stay so. Moving brought new waves of pain and he gritted his teeth to stay silent. It was as well that the room was small, no bigger than a Spaniard's brig, for he doubted he could have crossed anything larger. Even so the three stumbling steps it took to get him across to the table that formed the main furnishing set his stomach heaving, and started a canon firing in his head to accompany the drum roll already there.

To distract himself he set about inspecting the empty table, as strange as everything else it seemed for it was not made of wood, nor marble, nor anything else he could recall seeing; but it was a smooth as the best glass and as shiny as polished gold. It was, however, also as empty as Jones's locker, with no sign of anything there that could be used as a weapon. Carefully he gripped the edge and tried to pull it towards him but it didn't move and a glance at the floor betrayed the bolts that fixed it into place; no joy there either then.

Jack collapsed against the table and rubbed his neck, wincing as his fingers found a sore spot. Now he was on his feet it wasn't only his head that hurt, his ribs did too, and his neck and his back. Carefully he pulled his hand away and stared at it, no blood, well that was something. Drawing a deep breath he steeled himself to move his head, looking down at himself with unease. His eyes widened as he saw the bruises, livid and still darkening against his skin, he ran one careful finger tip across his rib cage feeling the skin protest as he did so; it looked like he'd taken a heavy beating, well it wouldn't be the first, but it was the first he couldn't recall at all.

He straightened and pushed himself away from the table, drawing himself up to his full height and trying to persuade himself he was starting to feel better; didn't matter whether he was or he wasn't when it came down to it, because the bruises suggested that finding a weapon was certainly his most pressing concern. From the table he turned towards the only other feature of interest in this little room, a closet set into the far wall, at least the tiny knob on the panel suggested it was a closet. Two faltering steps took him there, only to find disappointment when the knob refused to turn. With a curse he shook the door but it appeared to be locked, and the rattle of it sounded like thunder in his head.

With another curse he staggered back across the room and sank down on the bed.

No clothes, no weapons and all the signs of being an unwelcome, and far from honoured, guest. What now? Did he sit here and wait for them to come and finish what they had started? Given that they hadn't finished him the first time he could only conclude that they meant to take their time about it, not a thought that gave him any joy, he'd rather take his chances with the sea. Even without his clothes.

A bubble of unexpected laughter rose up in him, and he smiled a twisted smile, 'a fine start for William's new career,' he found himself thinking, ' finding himself charged with taking a naked and abused Jack Sparrow back to the locker. The boy isn't keen on me as it is and he'll never forgive me for giving him cause for pity. No more than I'd forgive him for feeling it.'  
The laughter died as another wave of nausea shook him, and with it came another thought, if he didn't have his coat then he didn't have the chart. Without the chart he couldn't be sure that he'd find the fountain, and without that the prospect of returning to the locker became more real and frightening. A moment of panic followed, but he pushed it away, reminding himself that he'd studied the chart carefully for just such an eventuality. He could get to the fountain without the chart if he had to, but it might make it much harder to retake the Pearl.

Desperation pulled at him and he dropped his head into his hands again, when would it end!

'Not for the moment that's for sure,' the pirate self berated him, 'no one is going to get you out of this other than yourself, so set about doing it. Wait much longer and they, whoever they are, may be back for some more sport with you. That may mean more than just bruises and a sore head this time so it's best avoided if you can manage it.'  
'Fine words,' he thought, 'but how am I supposed to be doing that? No weapon, no clothes and no chart. Not to mention no idea of where I am, nor how I got to be here."  
'You're Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?' the voice came back, 'When has it ever been easy? Get off your arse and prepare to fight, no one has ever done it for you before now have they? Why then should you expect it to be different this time? Or would you rather die naked and bleeding in the corner of this cell?'

Jack closed his eyes against the picture that created, memories of the past rising to remind him what might be on the other side of that door. He felt the hot surge, pushing away the pain in his head, stifling the aching of his ribs and drowning the threatening despair. He rose and crossed to the door, realising with a spurt of anger that he hadn't even tried it to see if it was locked. Fool! Why had his wits gone a wandering in this way?

His hand was on the lock when he heard footsteps not far away and coming closer. He spun and searched the little room for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere. The bed, he could lie down and pretend to be asleep. But what use would that be? It would be harder to defend himself from the bed than from standing, and easier for them to subdue him.  
'Not them though,' his watching mind told him, 'just the one.' So maybe he had a chance of some sort.  
With a sudden thought he pulled the sheet from the bunk, twisting into a rope and winding it between his hands as he edged to the side of the door, if he could keep the element of surprise he might choke them before they could raise an alarm. Then he might slip out and be over the side and free before they knew it.

The footsteps didn't slow as they approached the door, nor was there the sound of a key in the lock, instead the door slid sideways and suddenly Jack was facing the last thing he had expected. His eyes widened with the surprise of it,  
"Who are you?" he heard his own voice demand.

The woman in the doorway, and there was no doubt that she was a woman despite the man's clothing, took a step back from the threshold, her hands dropping to her belt in manner he recognised only too well, though he couldn't see her pistol. She smiled slightly, one eyebrow flicking for a second as her eyes darted over him before coming back to meet his own,  
"Like minds and all that, it seems," she drawled, "and there was I hoping to ask you the same question."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – Parlay **

The first storm arrived not two hours after they had found the remains of Jack's flag. It was not of particular note other than the fact that it was not the time of year for it, but, as Barbossa kept telling himself, storms could strike at any time and only a mad man would see the hand of Calypso in all of them. 'Or a man who had reason to fear her,' a small voice whispered.

But he was not alone in thinking it; even as they battled the winds to reduce canvas he knew it to be the thought upper most in the crews minds, and knew too that a little more of his influence over them had just been bled away. He tried to concentrate on keeping the helm steady while the laughter cackled loudly in his head, telling himself that they would not turn on him just as long as he held his own against the sea. As the storm reached it zenith, and the Pearl bucked like a thing possessed, or as if she resented his hand on her, he thought he heard new voices in the wind, warning him that mutiny was a catching disease. As the sea washed over the decks they crowed in glee that none would save him and that he would come to know the locker again. The cold of the spray was nothing to the chills that threat produced.

Then, when the lightening was at its brightest and harshest, he thought he saw her standing at the prow; she was smiling and her painted teeth echoed the darkness of the seas below them. He squinted through the rain telling himself it was naught, just a shadow, but her outline remained there for a moment or two, and her eyes met his in a long and knowing look before her form shivered and was gone, melting into the wind.

Barbossa knew that he had been warned.

Yet it seemed that the end was not come upon him, for as she faded so the winds shifted allowing him to turn the battered Pearl towards the shelter of an unnamed island, a scrap of land that was little more than a dot on the map. The wind was full astern now and the tattered black canvas strained as if knowing that they were headed towards safety, the crew hurried to trim and balance the sheets, anxious to make best use of it. For a moment their resentment was lost in the unexpected relief and the growing hope that disaster would be averted, at least this time. Even so as the shoreline came in sight, black rocks as jagged and predatory as a hellhounds teeth, the suspicion crept back into their eyes and Barbossa wondered if even this respite was a part of Calypso's vengeance.

But once within the shelter of the headlands the seas calmed, the winds eased still further, and the anchor found a biting point that steadied and held the ship a safe distance from the waiting rocks.  
"We'll bide here awhile gentlemen," Barbossa said, striving to suggest without words that it had been his intention all along. "Once the storm is past we'll go ashore and seek water, no reason to be passing up the chance given that its' presented itself."  
Several of the crew cast him uncertain glances but it was Pintel who, as usual, spoke what many were no doubt thinking,  
"With respect captain," his tone held noting of the kind, "If we are to catch Captain Jack before he beats us to the prize then there is no time to loose. We have water enough, why should we take the chance of him finding the fountain while we tarry here? He already has a start on us so I says we move on soon as the wind eases."

"Do ye now?" Barbossa struggled to stay calm, "and where would ye be a going to? Tis right enough that I know," he smiled as he stressed the 'I' just a mite, "where he is likely to be heading, but to find the prize itself we need the chart. Which means finding Jack, and he never does anything the straight way. So there be no knowing where the finding of him will take us, and that being the way of it we take on water while there is the opportunity. Or would ye rather die o' thirst before we find those other waters we be seeking?"  
Even from this distance he could see the rage building in Pintel's eyes and wondered what the effect of running the man through on the others would be. One look at Marty's set face, and the frown on brow of the nincompoop in a hat standing behind him, persuaded Barbossa that they might not be what he desired. He took a deep breath and waved a casual hand towards the open seas,  
"Sparrow be without a ship of his own, 'tis true that be unlikely to stop him but it will slow him down a mite," he heard the bitterness seeping into his voice again and bit back the words, and, smiling slightly into Pintel's glare, he found an easier tone, "but he will need time to find his way and we need to allow him that. So what say ye gentlemen, a trip ashore and some time spent studying the maps?"

For a moment they said nothing and he thought he had lost it, but Pintel just exchanged a sly look with Raggetti and then the pair walked away. Marty watched them go for a moment then looked back at Barbossa with narrowed eyes, before shrugging in apparent agreement and sauntering away too. The two he didn't know watched him for a moment longer, as if trying to understand a puzzle, then they followed Marty.

A squall of wind swept Barbossa's hat from his head and, as he bent to retrieve it, he saw her shadow on the wet deck.  
"This time Barbossa, but fa how much longer?" her voice crooned.  
He straightened swiftly, ignoring the twinge in his back as he did so with the ease of long practice, and the sudden stripping of flesh from the hand that held the hat with more effort. He turned to face her with his rage already boiling, hand hovering toward the sword he knew would be of no help, readying himself for the verbal battle.

But she was already gone.

***

For a moment Jack just stood and stared at the newcomer with wide and disbelieving eyes. It had not been that long since he had lived beside another female in male dress, and so should be accustomed to the sight, but it was also true that Elizabeth Swann had never looked quite like this one did in it.

To be fair the clothes themselves were different, this woman's dark coloured breeches were far better, and closer, fitting than those common amidst the royal navy, or the pirate fraternity, and her shirt was less voluminous. A fact made more obvious by her lack of a coat and the way the wide belt pulled the fine and brightly coloured fabric, it looked to be silk, towards the sweeping contours of the body beneath it. No attempt was being made to hide those curves, no attempt at all, and they wouldn't have succeeded if there had been. Taller than Elizabeth, near his own height, she had a woman's body not that of a girl. Jack, knowing himself to be, to some degree, her hostage, struggled to keep is eyes on her face; even in the circumstances that was not easy.

Not that her face made matters any more comfortable. In all his wandering he didn't think he had ever seen a woman as beautiful as this one; so beautiful, so perfect, that it didn't seem possible that she was real. Her skin was as white as ever Elizabeth's had ever been, and as flawless as only someone who had never known hardship, or the pox, could be. If her ship hadn't told him of her wealth, and somehow he already knew that this was her ship, then that skin and the long, glowing, hair would have done so. And clean, she was most unnaturally clean, so clean that it was impossible to imagine that she was ever anything else. No, he'd never seen her living like, she could have been a painting or a statute from one of the great houses, and she had aristocracy stamped in every line of her.

Jack felt his nerves tighten further at the realisation of the consequences that might follow as a result of that if she thought he had offered her any insult. Somewhere, no doubt close by, she had a family, or crew; men who would not bother with the inconvenience of the law if she told them he had assaulted her and to string him up. Certainly not when the brand was there on his forearm for all to see.

Which made his absence of clothes even more a handicap.

Yet if that was the case why was she here alone? This visit didn't fit with the idea of an aristocratic lady any more than those clothes, or, he realised with a slight shock, the haze of colour painted on the skin around her eyes. Nor for that matter did her composure, her lack of reaction to his nakedness or the faint, challenging, and rather quizzical smile she was wearing, a look that told him she was both watching him and waiting for something.

It seemed he was faced with something of a puzzle and one he needed to solve quickly.

Yet she was a sight that he could spend any amount of time studying in any other circumstances, so beguiling that he was suddenly glad of his weakness and the pain in his head. But however prepossessing she might be it seemed likely that she was to some degree his captor, and so he could not let her appearance rob him of his wits, nor grant her too much advantage. One look at her eyes told him that would be a serious mistake.

For all her obvious wealth and breeding there was something about her that spoke of authority rather than pampered ease. Not least the lack of fear in her. Elizabeth had lived a sheltered life and yet she known fear when they first met, though she had done her best to hide it and her best had not been bad at all. Wicked and unkind tongue the girl had had shown herself to possess from the start. But Jack knew well what that shadow looked like, had seen it often enough, but it wasn't in this woman, not at all. So, whatever else she might be, she was confident of her weapons and her authority.

Oh yes, this expensive ship was hers right enough.

Which meant that it was a duel between them and that he couldn't afford to drop his guard so easily, not if he was to come out of the business with a whole skin. Time to take back some of the advantage, at least as much as was possible in the circumstances. Maybe his pitiful situation would prove his best defence, though those lovely eyes didn't seem to say much of sympathy for a wounded man.

Best strike terms with her as soon as he could.

He lowered the sheet rope with a slight and careless smile and crossed in front of her to sit cross-legged, and, he hoped, obviously unconcerned, on the bunk, tossing his only means of defence down beside him and resting his hands on his knees. The move meant that if she wanted to talk to him she would have cross the threshold and in doing so would, hopefully, leave the door open.

Which was what she did, though her smile as she entered the room suggested that she had recognised the ploy. But she said nothing about it, simply propping herself against the table and studying him casually, the smile still in place. Her hands never left her belt though, and despite the absence if any obvious weapon he was sure that there was one there somewhere.

Jack smiled his most charming smile, resolutely ignoring the increase of pain that brought, and waited.

***

Elanor watched the man settle himself on the bed, saw the slight narrowing of his eyes that betrayed the pain as he did so, and wondered where to start.

Awake the man seemed to be as much of a conundrum as he had been asleep; his pallor, and the strained look around his eyes, told her he was hurting every bit as much as she expected him to be, but those same eyes were alert and watchful. Their deep colour, and the shadowing kohl, made it hard to read any expression in them but she could see but the caution from here. The smile he turned in her direction was as charming and unthreatening as any she had ever seen. Even the flash of gold and silver didn't succeed in planting a threat in that smile, for which she gave him full marks. Whoever, and whatever, he might be it seemed clear that he had himself well in hand.

Yet his composure and apparent submission was surprising and suggested either total despair or desperation, or that the situation might not be as novel to him as it was to her; not a pleasant thought. She wasn't sure what she had expected to face when she came down here, but some demand for explanation, for recompense, had seemed likely; this calm, restrained patience hadn't been.

Nor had she expected him to be afraid.

Watching him settle himself she was surprised by the stillness of him, every muscle suborned to the caution she could read in his eyes, and, despite the elaborate unconcern he was at pains to show, she was reminded of something wild taken unawares and uncertain of whether to run or hide or fight. His obvious fear for his own safety, he could have intended only one use for that twisted sheet, and the pain she could see in him, also stirred her guilt. But her rational mind warned her that whatever her offences against him they did not offset the threat he might yet present; she resolved not to return those odd weapons to him just yet.

But he was no threat for the present; even in the moments since he had faced her in the doorway he had grown paler under the tan, and the hands that rested so casually on his knee still betrayed a slight tremor as if staying upright was demanding nearly more effort than he had available. The bruises were dark and obvious now, extending all the way down the right hand side of his torso and his ribs would be aching badly. He would be feeling cold too, the hatches were open and the night air was beginning to penetrate down to the cabins; a naked man, still weak from that blow to his head, could not be comfortable.

Even so she could not allow his weakened condition or guilt to lead her into taking foolish risks, while there was no need for open hostility she would need to deal with him firmly. She might be the cause of his injury but she could not let that beguile her into being too accommodating, the ground rules must be clear from the beginning. The most important of them being that she was the Chaser's captain and that she expected the respect and obedience that went with that while he was aboard. Even so his lack of bluster inclined her to be as gentle as the situation allowed, so for that matter did self interest, there no point in raising tensions that could be avoided. He had asked the question first so she would answer it.

She indicted herself with a wave of her hand,  
"Cavendish, Captain."  
She saw him nod slightly as if confirming something to himself,  
"Your turn," she prompted with an inquiring tilt of her head.  
"Sparrow, Captain." He replied with a reappearance of that intriguing smile.

For a moment there was silence between them as each studied the other in light of this new information, Elanor at least wasn't quite sure what to make of what she saw. She'd taken more notice of his clothes than his person when she had brought him here but now she came to look at him there were some things that maybe she should have paid more attention to. Not least the greater development of the muscles in his right arm and shoulder relative to his left, as if he had been accustomed to using that blade she had found on him. His hair was dark, like his eyes, and almost to his waist, and his tan had the reddish tint that suggested it owed as much to wind as sun. His hands and feet looked toughened, as if he was used to heavy work and had often gone barefoot, and the tattoos on his arms were cruder and less well defined than was usually the case. While he appeared to be strong and healthy enough he also looked like he hadn't had a good meal in some time.

Food. He would be hungry by now, headache or not. A meal would be a useful icebreaker, and hopefully a reassuring one. Maybe he would feel more comfortable discussing what had happened when he was fed; her grandmother had always said never to overlook the relationship between the comfort of man's stomach and the tenor of his temper. But then her grandmother had been as odd as her parents. Not that odd meant foolish. Food would also present the opportunity to administer something to help the pain and keep him good tempered.

"Well Captain Sparrow,"  
She granted the title with careful courtesy, though the little boat the Chaser had destroyed barely warranted it. Which meant that if he was truly Captain Sparrow then somewhere he had another ship, and possibly a more formidable one. A ship that might be closer to hand than anticipated given Aridane's unusual slip up in seeing him; definitely a thought to be borne in mind, along with the considerations about how he might have misplaced it. Questions about that, however, would wait. She let her eyes flick over him again,  
"Your clothes are not yet ready, so I'd better find you something to wear given that evening seems to be getting a little chilly,"  
That brought a quick frown but he said nothing,  
"Then a meal seems to be in order, we can discuss the situation over that. If that's alright by you, that is?"

He now seemed thoroughly taken aback though he hid it quickly enough,  
"Very gracious of you Captain Cavendish. Though I must have slept longer than I thought if it is already evening."  
The voice was warm and carefree enough but the anxiety had slid into his eyes again.  
"More than twelve hours." She replied calmly and nodded towards the bandage on his brow,  
"You took a nasty crack to the head, though Ariadne says it's not all down to that, it seems that you've not slept well recently."  
It was not quite a question, but it was an invitation, and he ducked it, while a strange look, both wary and desperate, flitted across his face,  
"That I've not," the look disappeared and the smile returned, "life has been a trifle busy of recent weeks."  
It seemed as if he expected her to say something about that, and when she didn't he appeared to be both surprised and relieved.

Then he something else seemed to occur to him, and his earlier stillness returned in force. For a moment he paused, then, as if deciding something, he leant slightly towards her, the charms tinkling slightly as the heavy mane of his hair swung forward over his shoulders,  
"Aridane, she would be one of your crew I expect?"  
There was an oddly calculating look in his eyes and the tone of his voice had shifted subtly.

Elanor was taken aback not only by the question but the strangeness of his phrasing. It almost seemed as if he thought Ariadne was a person, but if he did then he could have no knowledge of who, and what, it was that he had collided with. Yet there could be few people in the world who wouldn't know what type of ship, and captain, would be sailing these waters at the moment. Caution whispered not to tell him more than she had too,  
"You might put it like that I suppose. Though I'm not sure she would if you asked her." She let her smile widened a little, "assuming that you could."  
Let him make of that what he would.

"Ah."  
He sat back again looking at her through narrowed eyes, his shoulders tense and his face set. Then he seemed to force himself to relax, and raised his hands from his knees to rub his arms,  
"You are right about the chill, Captain Cavendish, I'd not say no to a shirt and some breeches," he inclined his head towards in apparent thanks, "as for my other effects…" he let the sentence trail off, but he watched her more closely than at any time before.

Elanor noted the expression, it resolved any doubts about the status of those effects, they were weapons and he wanted them back badly. Not surprising given his unexpected fear for his safety, but a wish she could not give into. But nor did she want him searching the ship for them, not when she was becoming increasingly aware of her own fatigue, so she let her smile widen yet further and pushed herself away from the table to stand just in front of the bunk letting her hands drift to her belt as she did so; it seemed that he understood that gesture as well as she did,  
"They are quite safe," she paused fractionally while they made eye contact, "….in the strong room. I will of course return them before you leave," the 'but not before' didn't need to be said, it was obvious from the momentary setting of his face that he understood her meaning.

He nodded still holding her eyes with his, his smile solidifying to a baring of teeth  
"Of course Captain Cavendish,"  
Then the smile softened again and took on a devilish edge.  
" Strong room eh? My compliments, seems 'tis well prepared this ship of yourn. Does it have a name?"  
Elanor had moved towards the door, but turned at threshold she turned to face him again,  
"It does Captain Sparrow, it's called the Dawn Chaser."  
She looked back at him, searching for some spark of recognition in his eyes, but there wasn't any there. What she could see was appreciation, though wether for herself or the ship she couldn't judge.  
"Ah," he said with nod of his head, " a fine name, and she's a fine ship I'm sure."  
"Be in no doubt about that." Elanor responded dryly.  
"And her Captain does she have any other name than Cavendish?" he looked up at her disarmingly.  
Elanor fought a sudden desire to smile, he was like a small boy trying to find the location of the treats without being seen to try; then he moved and her eyes were caught by that unpleasant looking brand and she reminded herself that he was nothing of the sort. Still no need to be hostile just,if knowing her name made him feel safer why not, it was obvious he knew nothing of who she was.

But then nor was there any reason to surrender the advantage, she crossed her arms again and stared him down,  
"I went first last time Captain Sparrow, your turn now." He voice left no room for argument.  
He watched her for a long moment then inclined his head graciously,  
"So you did." He looked at her steadily, "Jack, my name is Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow."  
He said it almost defiantely as if he was afraid it might mean something to her and Elanor made a mental note to talk to Aridane about it while he was getting dressed, for the moment she just inclined her head in recognition,  
"Elanor, my name is Elanor Cavendish. Captain Elanor Cavendish."

She saw the humour spark in his eyes, but nothing more, before she turned and headed to the galley.

***

"What's wrong with Barbossa?" Marty asked as they sat over the rum ration later that evening. "He's behaving strange and getting stranger. Captain Jack was strange, but not like this. It's like he's somewhere else most of the time, not with us at all. "  
"He's going mad," Pintel grunted, "coming back from the dead's not natural, done something to his mind."  
Raggetti nodded sagely,  
"Eternity is bound to mark a man, Captain Barbossa is probably feeling the hand of God on his shoulder."  
Pintel shot him a sly look,  
"More like the hand of Calypso. The sea witch won't forgive him for putting her in chains." He grinned coldly, "stupid thing to do, she hates the Pirate Lords for imprisoning her, I'll wager Barbossa is pretty high up her list of those to be revenged on after that additional insult."

"But Captain Jack is a Pirate Lord too, she didn't seem to mind him."  
That was the darker of the two newcomers, the ones that Pintel had his suspicious of, the way they hung around listening to other people's conversations weren't natural. He leered at him,  
"Aye but he's Jack Sparrow, see, and she was trapped in female form. Captain Jack and the ladies, well that's a sight to see." He shook his head, "don't know how he gets away with it, not with no more than the odd slap."  
"Aye, Captain Jack knows how to get around the ladies. It's the charm I suppose." Raggetti sounded despondent.  
"But Captain Jack's the one gone mad." The fairer of the two spoke up, the one who never seemed to know what was going on, "That's what Captain Barbossa said, that's why we had to leave him behind. " he looked around him, "that's what you said. Captain Jack came back from the Locker mad."  
"Well he were nat never what you'd call normal." Marty said thoughtfully, "but he seemed to get less odd in the last days. Still strange, but not so strange. Just Captain Jack strange rather than mad man strange."

The fair one looked more confused than usual,  
"So why did Captain Barbossa say we needed to leave him behind?" he asked.  
Pintel, Raggetti and Marty exchanged looks, then leaned in closer as Pintel voted himself spokesman again,  
"Well Captain Barbossa and Captain Jack were not what you might call soul mates."  
"That they weren't" Raggetti snickered. "Not since Captain Jack shot him."  
Pintel frowned at his friend,  
"Not since before then."  
The darker one of the odd two nodded,  
"That's why you left him behind last time."  
"Well yes, and then again no." Pintel seemed to think for a moment, "See the Pearl was Captain Jack's ship and Barbossa was his mate. But Barbossa didn't like the way he worked, didn't think it were profitable enough. Captain Jack was young see, and what you might call a novice as a pirate, for all that his father is Keeper of the code. Barbossa thought he'd make a better captain, but, with Captain Jack's family connections so to speak, he couldn't leave him alive to tell tales."  
"Dangerous connections." Raggetti reiterated with a nod, then fell silent before Pintel's glare,  
"So when Captain Jack told us the bearings for the treasures of the Isle de Muerta, he abandoned him on a tiny island to die."  
"But he got away." Raggetti added forgetting the glare of a moment before.  
"How?" The fair one demanded.  
Pintel shrugged and sent another warning glare towards Raggetti,  
"No one knows. But he was always tricky were Captain Jack, even then and young as he were. He had a funny way of thinking."  
"Devious." Raggetti chipped in quickly.  
This time Pintel just nodded,  
"Aye, devious. Oft times you couldn't see why he was doing what he be doing, until what he wanted to happen just sort of..... happened. It was like he was playing that game, what do they call it…."  
"Chess? Marty suggested,  
"Aye that's it! Chess. Like he was playing chess, but with people as pieces. Got it right more often than he got it wrong too, but Barbossa didn't trust that, didn't sit well with his view of things. So Captain Jack had to go."

"But he came back?" The fair one asked again.  
Pintel nodded,  
"Aye the treasure was cursed ye see. So when Captain Jack got hold of Captain Turner, as is, old Bootstrap's son, he saw a way to get Barbossa to dance to his tune and to get the Pearl back. But Poppet, Mrs Turner as she is now, got in the way and Captain Jack he had to get them all out of it. So he shot Captain Barbossa and left him for dead."  
"Dead he were too," Raggetti again, "until She brought him back."  
"Aye," Pintel nodded, "she brought him back. But he was never the same man since, and he's getting worse."

"So why did we leave Captain Jack behind?" the fair one was still confused.  
Pintel frowned at him,  
"Captain Barbossa didn't trust Captain Jack before and now he hates him. But he's afeared of him too, and that never does anything for Captain Barbossa's temper."  
Raggetti nodded,  
" Captain Jack he ain't a boy any longer – see. Tricky boy is a tricky man now and that's different." He smirked, "Didn't think Captain Jack had it in him to kill him but got shot for his error. Barbossa's not so sure he could deal with him now. Not so sure that She won't side with him if he tries to kill him."  
"So he left him behind." Marty chipped in, and shrugged, "could have been an accident, who's to say."

The fair one frowned again,  
"And we left him behind because…."  
Pintel gave a grimace that might have been a smile,  
"Barbossa is right about one thing, Jack ain't a boy any more but he's still tricky and he's still got that streak of somethin' strange. Who knows what he'd do if we found the Fountain and someone else wanted it?"  
Raggetti nodded again,  
"Wanted the Dutchman real bad, but gave it to Turner anyways. No saying what he might do with the Fountain, not any more." He sounded sad.  
"Aye." Marty nodded and looked at the two newcomers, "as we said Captain Jack is strange." He took a swallow of his rum, "now we've got another one." He looked across at Pintel and Ragetti, "so what do we do about it?"  
The other two exchanged a sly look,  
"Wait, we wait." Pintel said. "When we find Captain Jack, or where he is, we think about it again."  
"Review our options at an appropriate time, so to speak." Raggetti chipped in.  
"Aye, at an appropriate time." Pintel agreed with a leer. "Who knows maybe it will be Barbossa's time to have an accident."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - A wonderful trick **

Elanor found her visitor some basic clothing then adjourned to consult with Ariadne before delivering it.  
"Still no sat link?" she asked with no real hope.  
"No, nor radio link."  
Elanor gnawed at her lip,  
"What the hell is going on Ariadne?"  
"Insufficient information is available for analysis."  
"No I suppose not," she sighed.  
Nor had she got any real information out of her guest, something she must see to correcting, which reminded her of one reason for being here,  
"Jack Sparrow, Captain, or so he says. See what you can find out about him Ariadne. Check the maritime and criminal databases first, then try the press databases. He certainly seemed worried that I might have heard of him, so he must have had some access to communications, which is a bit odd given that he seemed to have no knowledge of who I was, or of the Chaser for that matter."  
"Very well."

She crossed to the chart,  
"Where did he come from?" she mused half to herself, "There's no port near enough for him to have reached where we found him in that boat, not unless he was more than usually fortunate in the weather and seas. At least not if we are where we should be."  
"Do you want me to search for possibilities?" Ariadne asked, startling Elanor who hadn't really intended to ask the question.  
She gave that a moment or two of thought.  
"Yes." Another thought occurred, "and run a local area scan, nearest coastline, fix our position relative to the nearest large town, and then see if you can find some temporary settlement, a shanty town or refugee camp, which might fit as his point of departure. Whoever he is he has been living pretty rough recently by the state of him, and not off the fat of the land either."  
Which reminded her that she needed to put the necessary items into the washroom before she returned to him, fleas she could live without.  
She frowned,  
"That might explain it I suppose, a storm refugee," she muttered to herself, "maybe lost his ship that way too."  
A nice comforting thought, and far from impossible, so why didn't she believe it?

Elanor stared at the chart for a moment longer, but even if he were that still wouldn't explain those strange weapons or the ancient chart, 'unless they were some form of family heirloom carried for their value' she thought. If that was the case then they might represent his only remaining possessions, which cast a different light on his concern about their loss perhaps. She felt a surge of sympathy, if that was true then she couldn't blame him for his anxiety, to lose everything in such a way would be more terrible than she could imagine.

Yet he didn't have the appearance of a refugee from a storm or anything else. He didn't have the air of shock that seemed to hand around for such a long time afterwards. No, he had been as in control of himself as it had been possible for someone in his situation to be, and his sudden switches from submission to challenge and back suggested that both were strategies that he used interchangeably to meet events rather than anything that represented the full truth of the man beneath. That man remained as shadowy as he had been when he was asleep.

She thought back to their conversation, judging by his vocabulary he was literate, even educated, which ruled out a number of the possibilities that had occurred to her. But the roughened hands and feet, and the tar and varnish that stained them both, suggested that he had been used to sailing small and primitive ships, and probably not as a hobby. Certainly no ship of the Chaser's size would require the use of tar or anything like it

Elanor sighed and picked up the small pile of clothing, refolding them absently while she though. Maybe he would feel more communicative once he been given a chance to clean up and been fed. Food, she would see about that when he was safely ensconced in the washroom. She turned for the door,  
"Ariadne, extend those scans, check the status of all settlements in a three hundred mile radius, then see if there have been any storm damage or similar events recently. Hold results at the main console until I return."  
"Very well."  
"Oh, and Ariadne, close all hatches and lock all doors for the moment. I don't want our visitor wandering around while I'm in the galley."  
"Doors locked."

***

Fatigue had finally won and Barbossa had thrown himself down on the bed in the great cabin to sleep, driven by the sheer weight of his exhaustion from the deck. Not that he had expected to sleep when he had closed the doors on the crew outside, but hours of pouring over charts in candle light had sowed splinters in his eyes and an ache in his head and a numbing weariness in his bones, and when he laid down he found that sleep was waiting for him for the first time since they had returned from the locker.

The locker, even the name sent a freezing terror through him. Whatever Jones had conjured for Jack Sparrow there it would be nothing to what waited for himself if he didn't find a way to hold onto life. Nor would Calypso make any attempt to save him, for though he had honoured his vow he hadn't truly kept faith with her, and they both knew it. He had sought to profit above their agreement, just as he had once with Jack, and the sea goddess was like to be a mite less forgiving about it. Another painful lesson to be re-learned if ever death claimed him. Though he could no longer be sure that he wouldn't be alearning it in the here and now, not the way the crew were staring to look at him.

So sleep, sudden, deep and heavy had not been expected; yet like his death it found him anyways. Not that there was anything restful about it, broken as it was by periods of sudden wakefulness quickly swallowed back into drowsy meandering and then a rapid slide down into darkness. But as with his death the initial oblivion did not persist, for, as with his death, the dreams were many and varied, and each more unpleasant than the one before. Then he would wake again to find little Jack peering into his face as if concerned and his shirt plastered to his back by the cold sweat. But not for long, for he found he was too tired to rise and the darkness would soon encroach again, sending him back into dreams of the world of the dead. Yet few of those dreams made any sense, and many were populated by monsters and devils and ghosts that he could only half recall when he woke shouting and with his hand reaching for his sword or pistol.

Not that he wanted to recall them, he could hazard too many a guess what they were about.

He was surprised at the number that included Jack Sparrow, but as the light of morning strengthened beyond the windows he lay in a dozing dread and reflected that maybe it shouldn't be. From the first day they first met, when Jack had been so very young and buoyant but with a shadow of darkness already in his eyes and the brand red and painful looking on his wrist, to the day when the man he had become had used the Flying Dutchman itself to pull victory from what had seemed to be certain defeat, Jack Sparrow had been the joker in the pack of Hector Barbossa's life cards.

That first meeting of was often in his thoughts now, both waking and sleeping, and the memory was especially bitter, for without it the course of his life would have been different.

He had been sailing on pirates for nigh on twenty year before they had met, and he had made a name for himself amongst those searching for crew as a rare man with a blade and pistol. But he had never come close to being named captain before that day, he was known as a fine first mate, and a good sailor, but he had lacked flair, a fact that set him at a disadvantage with more experienced pirates. But in the boy that he had met that first day he had seen his chance, particularly given the crew Jack was gathering and the ship he had at his command.

None of the pirate vessels Barbossa had sailed on had come close to equalling the glorious lines of the Black Pearl, nor her promise of speed and manoeuvrability. The word in the taverns of Tortuga was that Jack owned her, had built her and maybe had a hand in her design; that talk was enough to pull the whores to him like moths to a candle and to fire himself with a dislike of the lad even before he knew him. Jack Sparrow had set himself up as the architect of his crew's fall that day, with his talk of adventure and wealth and Aztec gold. Despite his youth it was clear that he had already seen his share of the horrors men were capable of and that he didn't lack flair, or nerve if the truth be told; but there had been a strange generosity in him that had allowed events to overtake them all. Aye, Sparrow had been a lad who should have known the temptations that he and treasure and his fine, fast, ship presented to one such as Hector Barbossa.

Even the discovery of his parentage, though an unwelcome complication, had not been enough to outweigh it; though if Jack had carried the name of Teague that first day on the dockside they would all have thought twice about sailing with him.

If he had been different, more like his father, then maybe they would have honoured the code and satisfied themselves with their share of the loot. But that unpredictable streak had been visible even then, though he had to admit that he had misread it. He would have sworn that for all the bragging claims the lad lacked both the necessary resources to survive and the steel to follow through on it when they met again.

Ten years, Sparrow had waited ten years, but he had won through in the end. Maybe he had read the lad awry from the beginning. That misreading had cost him his life and set him at Calypso's mercy.

Even the locker had not been enough to finish Sparrow, though in those first few days after their meeting on its shores it had seemed that it might. Then he had been sure that his mastery over Jack was restored and that the Pearl would once again be his; so sure that even a flash of the old Jack, the only thing that had saved them and brought them home, had not concerned him. Confused, weary and uncertain the man they had brought back had not been the one who killed his mutinous mate at Isle de Muerta, even Miss Swann had seen that, though she had gone to some lengths to avoid having to. Whoever it was that had returned with them it was not the legendary Captain Sparrow, he was dead and a mad man inhabited his corpse. Barbossa had felt it only fitting.

Yet somehow Jack found his way through and had made it back to himself. A fact that had fuelled the fury that coloured these dreams, for if Sparrow could come back and survive, why then couldn't he?

***

Jack was surprised when Captain Elanor returned not a half hour later. Somehow he had expected that, having assessed him for herself, she would now delegate his care, if that were the proper word, to her crew. He couldn't decide if her return in person indicated that she was intent on segregating him from that crew and if that segregation bore some sinister motive, but it made him uneasy all the same.

What, too, was he to make of her earlier comments about this Ariadne, why would not be able to speak to her? Was this ship crewed by mutes? Nasty things could be deuced about it if that was the case and Jack found he had to speak to himself strongly to avoid dwelling on them; instead debating with himself the possible position of the Pearl and the likelihood of Barbossa finding them and coming to liberate his chart in the near future.

Assuming that Barbossa could make the connection between his disappearence and the arrival of this ship that was. Jack was not confident that he would, but then he wasn't sure that Barbossa was capable of making connections of the less than physical kind at all. If he had been he would have known that releasing Tia Dalma, Calypso, on her terms alone was bound to bring grief.

No, Barbossa had been a good first mate but as a captain he lacked a number of things, of which seeing past the obvious was not the only one that could prove fatal. Without the protection of the curse his life would not be long if he returned to pirating, certainly not given the gradually increasing terror and confusion that were to be seen in him. Which meant that the Pearl's days were probably numbered too if they didn't find himself soon.

Jack cursed his miscalculation of the crew's mood again before he returned to the problems of the present.

Captain Cavendish seemed disinclined to harm him for the moment but that could change, while he knew so little about her he could not be certain about neither her intentions nor her inclinations. A woman of some quality, and as self contained as it was possible to be and still breathe, she was a package of contradictions, and one that he was not sure he would be granted the opportunity to unwrap. Though the unwrapping might be a pleasurable experience, and, if taken slowly and carefully with due regard to interests on both side, might even be survived. Jack grinned to himself at the memory of those beautiful, shrewd, eyes and the thought of what might lie behind the expensive wrapping.

Then the smile died and he frowned.

He also needed to know more about the ship and its crew if he was to survive this encounter. How was it armed, for example, and where was it heading? It would unfortunate if she was sailing into the arms of the East India company, or even if she intended to put into a port where they or the British Navy had a presence. Norrington was not the only naval officer who could recognise a tattoo.

If he could just find some clothes then he could venture up on deck and see what kind of boats this ship was carried, maybe he could liberate one and be over the side and away before the fair captain noticed he was gone. A shame not to renew their acquaintance maybe, but staying alive took precedence.

As good a plan as any he decided, and at the moment any plan was an improvement on lying here wondering what was being planned as his fate. He slid to the floor and crossed to the door in a single movement. That door however refused to move in any direction, and with a sinking feeling he realised that he was locked in. Not good.

He returned slowly to the bunk and lay down again, propping his hands behind his head and wincing as the movement stretched the bruised skin across his ribs. His head was aching again and it took an effort to recall all that he could of their earlier conversation. What had he done or said to set her on her guard? His name had appeared to mean nothing to her, but then nor had hers to him, though looking back there were indications that she had been surprised by that. Was she a pirate then? Unlikely, if she had been at the convention at Shipwreck cove he was sure he would have both noticed and remembered her. But a pirate ship like this could only belong to a pirate lord, and she had not been amongst those, or amongst the officers of those who were. So who was she and where was she bound?

When the door slid aside again he roused himself from his apparent study of the bulkhead and swung himself up to sit on the edge of the bunk smiling up at her as he did so. The smile had no apparent effect other than to cause her to hand him a strange soft garment. She looked at him friendly enough though,  
"It occurred to me that you might want to use the washroom. Bathing in salt water wouldn't be my choice and I suspect it isn't yours either."  
She crossed to the table and placed a small pile of what he could only assume was clothing on its glossy surface.  
"I found you these, they should just about fit and will be warmer than waiting for your own things to be ready."

Jack wondered fleetingly what she meant by that then shook out the garment she had handed handed him. White, with long sleeves, it appeared to be some form of robe, but there the familiarity to anything he had ever seen ended, for it was made of a cloth he had never seen and was soft and fluffy as a newly groomed kitten. He stared at it for a moment before deciding that, whatever its strangeness, it was certainly preferable to his current nakedness; given that she had been right when she said that the night air was becoming chilly. As he got to his feet and shrugged himself into it, tying what he took to be the sash as securely as he could, she led the way out of the little cabin indicating that he should follow her with a wave of her hand.

Beyond the door was a narrow passage that ran in both directions, more of the shiny walls and shiny polished decks but little else. Even so she gave him little chance to study it. Instead she led him to the left and down to a door at the far end, which she pulled open and indicated he should enter. Though he was increasingly uneasily about the strangeness of his surroundings, and the eerie silence that seemed to hang over the whole ship, he could see no other course of action but to do as she so obviously wished.

The room itself, a little larger than the cabin he had left, gave no reassurance. The walls were white like the bulkhead above him and shiny as if highly polished lacquer, and in front of him was a small white bowl with some form of tap attached. The only other thing of note was a drain set into in the floor and Jack felt his stomach tighten as he remembered another drain in another floor, in another room, in another place. He swallowed on his sudden fear and reminded himself that such things were rarely done in such blinding light, and certainly not without the chains that were so obviously missing here. Looking around him more carefully he saw that on the wall behind the bowl there was a cupboard and there was looked to be another on his right hand side, the homeliness of there should have reassured him but his heart was still pounding and it took all his will power to keep the horror from his face.

Not that she seemed to notice anything amiss, she stepped past him to the second cupboard and slid the door open to expose a small enclosure topped by a metal bar covered in a sheet made at the same strange fabric as the robe she had provided for him.  
"Put the robe in here with the towels while you shower," she said calmly, then she indicated the first cupboard with a flick of her hand, "You should find everything you need in there."  
Calmly she reached forward to touch a dial on the wall,  
"It works in the usual way so turn it to the right for hot and to the left for cold."  
She started to back out of the room,  
"I'll bring some food to the cabin, save you coming to the galley. Enjoy your shower it might ease that headache."  
With that she closed the door leaving him alone.

Jack stared around the room for a moment wondering what to do next, then he stuck a tentative hand inside the open cupboard, only relaxing when nothing leapt out to bite him. Stepping backwards he inspected the white bowl, it was as clean and shiny as everything else he had seen on this strange ship so far; put the Navy to shame for all their spit and polish, and he wondered what size crew it took to keep it in this state and why he hadn't seen any of them. Or heard them come to that. That was another strange and worrying aspect of the ship, the silence of it. He put out a cautious hand and pulled open the door of the cupboard, it held a single bottle in a clear container marked by a small white label covered in carefully printed words. Slowly he reached in and took it out, turning it around in the bright light coming from another of those little stars in the bulkhead; he could read most of the words on the label yet put together they made no sense.

Frowning he put it on the side of the white bowl then turned around to meet his biggest shock yet, instinctively his hand reached to his belt, cursing as he remembered his lack of weapons. The shock lasted for mere seconds as he realised that he was staring at an image of himself in the largest and most perfect looking glass he had ever seen.

The sight was not reassuring. The bruises on his skin were black and dark blue now and they marked the right side of his face as well as his body. In the bright light of this room his eyes looked huge and dark and he was horrified to see the fatigue and anxiety so clearly written there. The white of the strange robe threw up the glow of his tan but underneath it he could see the telltale whiteness of fatigue and pain and he cursed, no wonder captain Elanor was so accommodating when he hardly looked to be any threat at all. He reached forward and stroked the surface of what had to be a glass, yet it didn't feel like glass, before drawing a deep and steadying breath and turning back to that thing she had apparently brought him here for. The thing that she said might ease the nagging pain in his head. She had indicated that he should

Jack stretched out a cautious hand, hesitating as his fingertip hovered in front of that dial that so clearly asked to be turned. She had indicated that he should remove the robe first, hadn't she? And there had been nothing in her attitude to suggest that she expected this to do him any harm so after a moment of thought he shrugged himself out of it and pushed into the little closet, then turned back to face that fascinating, yet strangely threatening, dial. After a moment of further indecision he gripped it gingerly between two fingers and turned.

He leapt backwards with a curse almost immediately as water poured from the disc above him, and he stood leaning against the looking glass as the water dripped down his hair ran down his face and over the bruises on his chest. He cursed again, shaking his head in an attempt to dislodge the drops running into his eyes and down his neck. His outrage was such that it was a moment or two before he realised that the water was warm against his cooling skin. Not unpleasant now he came to think about it, not unpleasant at all.

That made him think about what it was that she'd said, right for hot and left for cold, perhaps she had been referring to this water. Seemed unlikely but what else could she have meant? Yet who had heard of such a thing? No such wonder existed, not even in the steam baths of Singapore. Another memory surfaced, she had called this room the washroom, a fact he had given no thought to at the time. But a room dedicated to washing might indeed explain why she was so unusually clean, particularly if the water was warm.

Jack gave that some more thought, it was true that the rich tended to be cleaner than the poor for it was easier to be clean when you have servants to draw heat and bring the water. But a room where the water ran without servants? Well that was something altogether different, and if true then this ship was more strange than he had so far realised. On the Pearl washing, for those so inclined, meant that the rain or the sea; fresh water was far too precious to be wasted in such a way. If that was not the case here then Captain Cavendish was a rich indeed, and more than rich, for not even the British Navy in its might could afford to pour fresh water over its captain's. Much less hot water.

After a moment of thought Jack advanced slowly on the dial again, behind the one that had started the waterfall was a second, marked with arrows one left one right, was this what she had meant when she referred to hot and cold? Jack looked back at the container standing on the white bowl, whatever it was it seemed clear now that she had provided it in a spirit of generosity and so it was probably connected with her assumption of his desire to wash. Jack sighed, in the face of that generosity, and the reality of his powerlessness, she had left him with little choice.

He edged forward and reaching out a reluctant arm he turned the dial that began the deluge. The water resumed its flow and it was indeed warm, warmer than a monsoon rain; it fell over him in a soothing cascade then disappeared into that drain, in its passing it got neither hotter nor cold. With a frown he slid his fingers around the other dial and twisted it to the right, then he swore violently as the water became almost unbearably hot. Hurriedly he twisted the dial back towards the centre, realising with astonishment that as he did so the water temperature dropped back.

Slowly he turned under the cascade feeling the water running like gentle fingers over his tired and somewhat battered body, the force of the spray was soaking his hair while the warmth penetrated his scalp and was easing the nagging pain in his head, just as she had promised. After a moment or two he felt it soak through his hair easing the soreness of his scalp and massaging the tight skin of his neck. Jack smiled in unexpected joy as he realised the sheer sensual pleasure of the water cascading over an around him, taken aback by the thrill of it as it ran down his chest and back and flanks. He turned his face up towards the source, feeling the muscles relax as it washed over his eyes and ears to slip caressingly over his shoulders. If this was what washing meant on this strange ship then no wonder Captain Cavendish was so clean!

He lost track of time simply standing and revelling in the feel of the warmth seeping though him and the prickle of nerve endings as the water washed over his skin. Finally curiosity overcame him and he reached out and picked up the container, inspecting it carefully with raised brows and tilted head, rather as he might regard an unfamiliar and probably loaded cannon. Eventually he tipped a small amount of its contents over his hand.

It ran like lamp oil into his palm and Jack stirred it with an uncertain finger his brows rising as it started to lather. He watched in wide eyed and fascinated surprise as it licked the tar from his skin, and sent the dirt from his fingers in a blackened stream towards the drain. With a frown he looked more closely at the words on the bottle, wondering if they meant what he thought they did.

There was only one way to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A compass that doesn't point north **

Jack had no idea how long he had stood under the stream of water, however long it might be it wasn't long enough. The warmth had eased the worst of his aches and soothed the pain in his head but it would take far longer for the sheer pleasure of the caress of it to pall.

But she had mentioned food too, and the growling of his stomach persuaded him that while this wonder would be here later food might not be, not if he kept her waiting. The nausea had retreated with the pain and a meal began to have a growing, not to say insistent, appeal. Reluctantly Jack had turned the dial and shut off the water.

He studied his image in looking glass from all angles, if she wanted him clean before he sat her table then it seemed that she had her way; the strange lotion had done its apparent job with a thoroughness that astonished him. Looking at his own reflection he had to pinch his skin to be sure that it was his, with all traces of tar and oil and dirt removed it didn't look like him at all. The beads and charms in his braids were similarly affected, and they shone and sparkled against the deep brown of his now soft and clean hair. The flash of the beads pleased him but the strain around his eyes, more visible now the kohl was washed away, did not, and he scowled at himself in annoyance. However accommodating the fair captain might have been to date he could not afford to show her any weakness, not until he knew who she was and how he came to be in her custody.

With a sigh he turned and look into the closet for a cloth to dry himself on, she could not have intended for him to drip water on her wondrously shiny decks, however clean that water might be.

Pulling on the robe he opened the door and stuck his head out. There was no sign of Captain Cavendish, no sign of any one at all. Time to gather a bit more information, with luck he might even find that strong room she had spoken of.

The first door opened into a room smaller than either he had seen so far, it held nothing but another closet and what looked to be some form of commode. Reminding himself that nothing on this ship was what he was accustomed too he edged in and inspected it from closer quarters.  
'Yes' he thought, 'it looks to be a commode right enough, but what is that shiny disk on the front of it…….'  
He didn't even touch it before he found out its purpose, and he stared at the disappearing wave of water with disbelief. Well if it did what he thought it did then it explained some of the strangeness of the smell of this vessel.

He stuck his head out of the door again, still no sign of the lady of the ship, there were other doors to be opened t'was true but he could take a moment or two to investigate this find further.

***

Calypso stood in the corner and watched Jack wash himself with unexpected willingness and vigour, and as he set out explore, with a laugh on her lips, and a glint in her eye,  
"Witty Jack nat know what he stepped inta, but him enjoy it aal the same. Ah Jack, pirate ya may be and crazy for a mortal, but fool ya nat be."

She looked back into the now empty washroom wide eyed and considering.  
"But ah wonder at ya wisdom Lady." she breathed quietly, "Tis more tan strange tis dangerous, and for mort tan Jack,"  
With a frown she turned back towards the deck, where the Lady was waiting in the moonlight, skin and skirts like silver in the pale glow. For a moment the sea goddess stood and watched her, wondering what it was that she had in her mind. Not so easy to fathom that, for the full nature and ways of the Lady were unknown, even to a goddess. But her actions were rarely simple, and though she could appear cavalier in her attitudes to those she did not seem to love, and even to those she did, it was a mistake to assume that they were. Calypso had seen enough of them to know that was not necessarily the case, but also enough to know that her goals could be so distant that they were hard to discern. The Lady seemed to move across time as well as space, winding her plans around those involved in complicated dances that were as insubstantial as they were compelling; a more physical being could only wonder what purpose she was following now.

The Lady turned towards her and Calypso spoke what was on her mind.  
"Tis saviour you bought for witty Jack, be truly strange Lady and it worrit me. Waas tis the only way to save him? Tis ship be dangerous and nat for it's weapons only, te kawledge it contains does nat belang here and Witty Jack is nat the man ta pass the possibilities by lightly."  
She ran a hand down the smooth surface of the mast, her eyes brightening at the sight of the canvas stretched and perfectly balanced against the night wind.  
"Her Captain, she be a witty lady 'tis true, but she be out of time ant place and so she be at a disadvantage."  
A sudden thought occurred to her,  
"Be tat the reason tat you chose her Lady? Ya waant her here for some other purpose but nat alone?"

The Lady was silent as ever but she tilted her head and her smile flashed brighter than the moon on the wave caps. For a moment the fan fluttered in her hand before she swept it up to her face as she turned to stare at the dark horizon.

Calypso's laugh rang out in the wind,  
"Ha! Sa witty Jack be put use. He be her protector as she be his. Ma compliments again Lady, somehow I doubt tat ya will give him a choice in't it. Tis I shaall enjoy, rogue that he be."  
She turned to look towards the east,  
"For ta moment there be oter things thaat neet attention."

The Lady turned her head and gave a slight complicit smile before the two of them faded into the moonlight.

***

The passage way was still empty when Jack emerged into it once again and he began to make his way back towards the cabin trying each of the three other doors as he passed. Each was firmly locked and each time he cursed but was not really surprised, it was what he would have done in her place after all. From now, he reminded himself, he must assume that she would always do as he would do, if not worse. He cursed the thought, that made matters a mite more tricky.

Yet when he arrived at the cabin it was to find her sitting on the bunk with his chart spread out before her and his compass lying by its side.

She looked up as he entered, denying him any chance of studying her unawares, and, though her slight smile was friendly enough, there was a look in her eyes as she watched him enter that set him on his guard. Even so the smell of food was compelling enough to drag his eyes to the table.

She must have seen because she waved her hand towards it with a wider smile,  
"It's probably not a good idea to eat too much just yet. Head injuries can be funny about that, and I wouldn't want you throwing up without warning, but I thought you could probably do with some comfort food, so it's thick soup and bread. Will that enough for now? I can find you some fruit or something later, if you feel up to it."

Jack eyed her warily for a second or two, debating her response if he requested rum and reluctantly rejecting the idea, then nodded his thanks,  
"Most hospitable of you Captain Cavendish."  
The food smelled better than anything he could remember eating in a while. Even so he couldn't help wondering what, exactly, she was planning despite the friendly look, because he was sure that there was something. If he had been in her position he would have been.

Behind him he could hear her moving the chart as if unconcerned by whether he ate or not, but he wondered, not for the first time, why she was expending so much of her time and effort on someone who was, in effect, her prisoner. But it smelt so very tempting and he was extremely hungry, what could she be planning to do that would be changed by his not consuming her soup? He was weak enough already, starvation for the sake of it would serve no purpose, but perhaps that was what she expected?

Suspicion gave way to hunger at the first mouthful, the soup was hot, thick and tasty and the bread was as fine and soft as any he had ever seen. He concentrated on eating slowly, breaking the small loaf into bite sized pieces rather than tearing at it with his teeth as his ravenous stomach seemed to want him to do. The weight of it settled in his belly in a most comforting manner, and by the time he was emptying the last of the bowl he was feeling not only warm and comfortable but sleepy too.

Struggling throw the lethargy from him he turned to look at his host, but her eyes were locked on the compass now nestling in her hand. He could see a faint frown between her brows as she turned it this way and that, but she seemed to feel him looking at her and glanced up.  
"I can't see any reasons not return these to you immediately Captain Sparrow. I found the chart in your coat, it's had a soaking but seems undamaged, this compass on the other hand………" she let the sentence tail away.  
Then she rose, picked up the two items and brought them across to where he sat, setting them down amid the breadcrumbs beside the now empty bowl. He noticed how long and white her fingers were as she tapped the chart, and how very naked; he wondered why so rich a woman wore no jewelry Most importantly perhaps was that she wore no wedding band. No wedding band meant no husband, which meant that her wealth was hers alone, and that was very interesting!

He looked up at her again, meeting eyes that might just understand what he was thinking, and smiled disarmingly. Those eyes narrowed slightly,  
"The chart looks to be old, very old. Is it a family heirloom of some sort?" the words were phrased as question but carried the look of a demand.  
Jack was silent for a moment wondering how to answer her; somehow he didn't think she was going to believe that explanation. At least not without some modification. He wished his head felt less lazy, but the words came from somewhere,  
"That it is. Old, not a family heirloom," he shrugged slightly and waved a careless hand, noticing in passing how much shinier his rings were now.  
Then he frowned as he reviewed what he had just said and decided that it wasn't enough. He indicated the chart with another careless, or so he hoped, flick of his hand.  
"Well somebody's heirloom no doubt, but I regret to say that 'tis not mine. It was given to me as security you might say. For a loan," better to stick to some approximation of the truth he thought.

Her brows rose,  
"It looks as if it belongs in a museum! What could possibly be worth giving something like this as security?"  
Something about her words rang a bell in his head but he couldn't say what or why, instead he focused on answering her question,  
"A ship."  
He saw that stop her, and went on,  
"And not just any ship, a very valuable one."  
He cocked his head and smiled,  
"A life saving ship you might say."  
She thought carefully about that for a moment,  
"I see. Your ship?"  
Jack nodded briefly, the gesture was halted by a wave of dizziness and he struggled to command his tongue,  
"My ship. Which is why you find me without a ship, or rather with a very much smaller one. The…" he gave some consideration to the next word, "loan is not yet expired. So the chart remains in my possession."  
She seemed to consider that, and then she inclined her head as if in acceptance.  
"And the compass? Is that part of this security too?"

Jack stared into eyes that were both green and blue and wondered how to jump on that one. There was an intent look there that suggested that the compass too might be going a little far for belief. He wished he wasn't so bloody tired, this was not an opponent who could be taken for granted,  
"No, the compass is mine. I came by it as part of a …..complicated barter some time ago."  
She nodded slightly then reached out and picked up the item under discussion, watching as the needle swung, noticeably missing north in it's spinning.  
"This is a very odd compass."  
Her voice was calm but somehow implacable,  
Jack smiled as if unconcerned, taking it from her fingers as he did so and placing it on the table, watching her out of the corner of his eyes while half watching to see where the jumping needle pointed now. He sighed noisily, and stroked the casing lightly,  
"Nothing so interesting or valuable Captain Cavendish, merely broken. Shame it is too, for it must have been a fine instrument in its day."

He raised his eyes to find her staring at him with that slight and disturbing smile pulling at the corner of her mouth and he cursed silently, sharp as a blade this one and shamefully distrustful. He widened the smile and let it take on a salacious edge.  
"But I have very pleasant memories of it's past owner so I keep it."  
"For old time's sake?"  
Her voice was dry but there was appreciative amusement in her face. That worried him, but he nodded,  
"For old time's sake," he agreed.

She stood a little back from him and crossed her arms in that 'amuse me' gesture he had noticed before,  
"Indeed. Then I can only assume you are not much of a sailor Captain Sparrow,"  
She laid emphasis on his title in a way that sent his blood pounding, suddenly knowing that he had just been wrong footed. He swore silently again but looked back at her wide eyed and innocent,  
" Oh."  
She tilted her head at him as if considering her words carefully, but her eyes never left his,  
"It doesn't point north, to that degree it is, as you say, broken as most compass go. However I doubt that it is, in fact, broken," her voice took on a purring note that sent the hot rush into Jack's blood, "Because it was never intended to point north, could never have done so, not reliably. As it was never constructed to show north it is therefore incorrect to say that it is broken because it doesn't."

For a moment Jack couldn't think of what to say, and he struggled to buy thinking time,  
"Oh, wasn't it?" was the best he could manage, and he reached out and picked the compass up and watched the needle jump again, frowning as if confused at what he saw.  
Captain Cavendish gave a small snort,  
"No Captain Sparrow, it was not. Something I suspect you to be quite well aware of."  
Jack cursed clear eyed women everywhere and tried for an innocent tone,  
"Oh. Why would I be? No use in a compass that doesn't point north."  
He felt the amusement radiating off her and wondered what was coming now. Her smile was looking decidedly predatory to his tired mind, and the tone of her voice was no better,  
"Well that would depend wouldn't it? On whether it was north you were trying to find with it."

Jack felt as if he had been hit in the gut, who was this woman and what had she been doing while he was confined here? What exactly was he up against here, some relation of Calypso sent to torment him? But why? He and Calypso understood each other, had made peace with each other in some undefined way. Barbossa might have to fear her but Jack hadn't thought that he had needed to. He struggled to clear his reeling thoughts, Calypso would not chose this way either, not when she had the seas at her disposal, so, whatever she was, this woman was not her kin or summoning. But a witch of some kind for certain, she had to be.

He let out his breath in a wistful sight,  
"Ah. That it would." He looked up at her as unconcerned as he could manage, "'Tis true that it's previous owner told me that it had another purpose, but she never got round to explaining quite what that was." He smiled at her again, "she was not a lady to be pressed on things she did not wish to discuss."  
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded as if agreeing or accepting something and a wave of relief started to run through him. He could feel sleep building behind his eyes, though the pain had returned as he ate it had faded away again now muffled by a strange lack of feeling that seemed to be seeping through him. More than anything he wanted to lie down and sleep. But those clever eyes were still watching him and he had a sudden insight that this was far from over. That he was right was confirmed almost immediately.

She reached out and picked up the compass but her eyes didn't leave his face,  
"But it is very interesting all the same," her voice was full of an apparently disinterested curiosity, but that was given the lie by the intent look that had returned to her eyes, "when you hold it the needle points one way, when I hold it then it points in quite a different one. Yet nothing changes other than which of us holds it. Why would that be I wonder?"

Jack stared at her wide eyed, but she and the rest of the world seemed to be retreating away from him. He felt his eyelids sliding closed and blinked them open again, only to realise that though his eyes were seeing his head was making no sense of it. From a long way away her heard her speak and thought it was a curse. His eyes slid closed again and this time it was harder to open them. He felt her hand on his arm, then on the sash of the robe, tried to find words for something but he couldn't quite work out what.

The world was suddenly too far away for him to care.

***

Out to the east the Navy was returning to the Caribbean.

During the reign of Lord Beckett, there was no other word for it Groves thought, only the company colours had been flown, but now there was no sight of those. The company flags too had been replaced by the union flag, and naval uniforms could again be seen on the docks and forts. In fact but for the faces no longer likely to be seen, and the scars of the hurriedly constructed graves, it could be as if it had never happened.

But Governor Swann was gone, dead at Mercer's hand so it was said, and so was Norrington. In time their replacements would arrive and life would settle down to the usual patterns, but something in the world had changed, something had been broken that could never be mended. Not least his own belief in the rightness of things, and in himself.

How had it all gone so wrong? Until that moment when the Black Pearl and the Dutchman had turned towards them he had been sure that they would triumph, and that in victory they would be proved to be right. When the seas were safe for the merchants and the wealth flowed across the islands then peace would follow and everyone would see the justice and virtue of the actions they had taken. But when Beckett had shown himself to be a broken straw, bested by a pirate already rumored dead, it had all turned to dust, and in the wake of their failure the truth of what had been done in the laws name was laid bare. Groves stared at out at the horizon and wondered if they had all gone a little mad.

Now he saw the fear and hate, there was no other word for it, in the eyes of the citizens of the town and wondered what magnitude of damage had been done by one man's ambitions. Yet still the pirates were out there. Only today he had heard rumor that the Black Pearl had been seen back in Caribbean waters, probably headed for Tortuga.

James Norrington had traded with Beckett to regain his honour and position and was dead but Jack Sparrow who had been offered the same and had not was alive, he wondered if there was a lesson he was to take from that.

***

Jack awoke to total darkness and lay for a moment in silent terror wondering where he was. He couldn't remember the journey to the locker, or even the moments after the Kracken swallowed him, but he was pretty sure that it had involved darkness rather like this, deep and unrelieved.

And silent, unnaturally silent.

That hell of a prison had been dark too, but it had been noisy, racked with screams and shouts and pleas; sounds and sights that had haunted his dreams as he had fought to dodge Jones. Was he back there? He listened hard but the silence persisted, so it was unlikely. There had once been a prison though where the silence had been like this, broken only by his own moans and only then when he had allowed himself to remember. But that had been long ago and Beckett was dead.

Window, there should be a window. But there wasn't, no glass at all, no sign of night or day just the overwhelming silence and the deep endless dark. He felt a sudden and overwhelming need to see the sky, to stand on the prow of the Pearl and watch it slicing the swell, to be out in the wind with the horizon huge and endless before him. In near panic he threw aside the sheet and struggled up, his bare feet slapping against the wood of the deck as he hurried to the door.

It wouldn't open and he couldn't find the lock. He swallowed the sob rising in his throat and rattled the handle, but nothing happened, so banged the door with his fist and went on banging, and still nothing happened and no one came. He took hold of the handle again and shook the door and still nothing happened. Finally he turned his back against it and leant there, chest heaving, staring into the darkness. His legs seemed to lose all strength and he started to slide towards the floor no longer able to decide of he was awake or asleep or somewhere else entirely.

It was then that the door moved.

It didn't swing open but it moved sideways allowing a small glint of a lighter darkness to show. Something at the back of his mind cursed him for a fool reminding him how it had slid open before, sometime before, though he couldn't immediately remember when or why. Turning around his put his palms against the smooth surface and slid it sideways almost falling into the passage beyond in his haste to be out.

The passage way was narrow and dark too but not so dark and small glows of light lined the bulkhead, by their light he could just make out a door at the far end and he ran towards it with no thought for the other doors he passed on the way. This door opened onto a flight of steps leading up into more darkness, this time he didn't care, somewhere up those stairs he knew that he would find the sea and the sky and he just wanted to get there.

It was three flights in the end, three flight of steps and then another door, and when he pushed this one open he was hit by the sound of the sea and the feel of a breeze. Without thought for what might be waiting he through himself out onto the deck.

For a moment he just stared at the night sky and smiled drawing in a deep lungful of salt air, suddenly the world wasn't so strange any more.

The joy and relief didn't last.

After a moment or two he dropped his eyes to look around him and his breath caught in his throat. He was on a ship alright but it wasn't the Pearl.

Smooth decks, almost white in the moonlight, stretched in both directions. Whatever she was this ship was not as long as the Pearl but she was wider and she sat lower in the water. Her triple masts were tall and her canvas, now neatly furled, was white, but the rigging was strange with ropes in places and at angles he didn't expect to see them. The rails glinted strangely in the moonlight, set by small lights that in places extended across the pristine deck and high above him he could see others flickering palely in the masts and amongst the sails. The helm was set at the far end and with a hurried look around him he set off across the expanse of wood towards it.

At every step he expected to be accosted, but the was nether sight nor sound of anyone. When he finally mounted the steps to the helm and looked back towards the below deck stair he realised that he was the only one on deck; no snoring crew, no carousing sailors, no watching Captain, no one. She might have been a ghost ship.

She was beautiful though, even in shadow of night he could see that; strange and silent and somehow threatening, but very beautiful. Dawn Chaser, that was what her captain had called her and from the cut of her he could see that she might just be of the stuff that could chase the dawn. He found himself grinning with the pleasure of looking at her, laid out there serene and powerful in the moonlight. In her own way she was every bit as lovely as the Pearl, but strange in ways that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Out here on deck the panic of earlier had melted away, and, though he was aware in some way that world was skewed and distorted in some way, it didn't bother him any more than being drunk did. Beyond her shiny rails he could see the sea and above that the open expanse of the sky and the wind was stirring his hair and stroking his face and he was back where he belonged. All he needed to be himself again was the wheel of ship beneath his fingers and there was a wheel for the holding.

He reached out laid his hand on the smooth wood of the wheel, heart lifting as he felt the curve of it fit to his hand. Then he noticed the rest and blinked. Strange looking charts, lit by some inner glow, more of those small lights and what looked to be a little windows. Jack reached a cautious finger forward to touch the glass but pulled his hand back swiftly as a sound came from behind him. High above him something was moving in the rigging, yet there was no one there.

Then came the voice, female, calm and authorative. Jack spun around, one hand still holding on to the reality that was the wheel, but he was still alone; yet the voice did not stop.  
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Come out and show yourself woman, it's impolite to talk to me when I can't see you."  
But no one appeared, yet there was more lights amongst the canvas and more creaking of ropes and pulleys and he was sure he saw the canvas move.

Jack held on to the wheel, staring around in narrow eyed anger. He couldn't believe this was happening to him again, between the Dutchman and the locker he'd had more than his life's share of weirdness recently; and now, just when he thought he was free of it, the damned supernatural had found him again. Frantically he looked around him for a weapon but the sheer neatness of these decks defeated that intention, and the voice didn't stop and more candleless lights lit the little windows near the wheel.

Words seemed to come from the fabric of the ship itself and he could see those glowing lights in the masts moving against the dark clouds. Then the words made some sort of sense and Jack stared flickering lights in horror before he ran for the hatch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – Why is it gone?**

Elanor knew that she was going to have to sleep soon; even the stimulants couldn't hold the weight of fatigue back for much longer. Her passenger was already asleep, helped there by a large dose of pain killer and as large a dose of sedatives; fortunately a good bowl of soup was always disarming and could hide a wide variety of tell tale tastes.

Pity it had worked so quickly though.

She was starting to make mistakes. Her recent conversations with the man below decks had showed her that, or rather the fact that she had allowed herself to become sidetracked with unfortunate consequences did.

The decision to return his compass and chart to him as a gesture of goodwill prior to telling him what had had happened, given that it clear that for the moment he didn't remember, had been the result of her earlier sympathy. If only she hadn't decided to take a look at it first. Once she had the die had to some degree been cast, certainly given her rather surreal conversation with Ariadne a little earlier.

She had gone to the console expecting to find an indication of where her guest had come from, but instead had found a series of new questions, all of them with unpleasant implications. The scan had shown no sign of a suitable origin point for him, which was not of itself that surprising given that there was always the possibility that he had been abandoned by a ship; but there had been a small addendum to the scan findings that sent her anxiety levels up another notch. Ariadne had told her that their position could not be fixed to any large settlement as requested as there was none to fix to within the stated parameters. When she had asked for an explanation for that statement the reply had been totally unexpected.

"The scans do not support our theoretical position with any acceptable degree of freedom. Coastal outlines suggest that we are well outside the race zone."  
"So where do the scans say we are?"  
"Your earlier comments about the stars seem to be borne out to some degree. Extrapolating from the scan data it seems likely that our current position is some two hundred nautical miles south west of Cuba."  
"What!"  
"The lack of sat link and radio contact makes precision problematic," was Aridane's only response and the closest Elanor would ever get to an apology for failure.  
"But that puts us in the Caribbean, I think that we might have noticed that level of course deviation, even with the adverse weather conditions."  
"Agreed, however the scans do not support any other conclusion."  
"Well try and fix our exact position will you, use Havana and Port Au Prince as the reference points."

The sudden and drastic change of position had been alarming, but not as stupefying as Ariadne's next little bombshell.

"There is no doubt about that?" She could hear the horror in her own voice and felt the bile rise in her throat as a stomach churned, "Havana isn't there? But it has to be! A city that size doesn't just disappear."  
"Confirmed, however there is no settlement of sufficient size to be the target at the appropriate grid references."  
Eleanor thought for a moment then took a deep breath, while her heart told her that could not be true, must not be true, her head told her that Ariadne rarely made mistakes and there was no sign of any problem with Ariadne. Problems with the world perhaps, but not Ariadne, and there was plenty of other evidence that the world had gone mad.

How mad could only be certain with a little more investigation.  
"Ariadne scan all nearest landmass, confirm their identity and compare population density of scan finding with historical data. When that is complete check scan data against known points of interest, power installations, industrial complexes that sort of thing."  
"Scan initiated, estimated time to completion 40 minutes GMT."  
"Very well, contact me when scan and data analysis is complete."

Not surprising that after that exchange that his possession of a compass that didn't point north suddenly seemed more important than where her visitor had come from. Even so she would have been happier had she got some answers out of him, at least some that she was even half inclined to believe.

Sleep had come on him too quickly though, much faster than she had expected. Even with the sedative he had remained alert enough to cross verbal blades quite effectively until he was almost asleep, and the verbal wrangling had meant that sleep hit him before she had got what she wanted. She raised her estimation of him another notch and wished that she could rid herself of the idea that his arrival was linked to whatever it was that gone wrong with the world.

Now, as she drank her only brandy of the day, or rather night, she stared at the stars and cursed her own curiosity, that and her weakness for verbal game playing. She would have to wait several hours now before she could try and wring more information from him.

In the meantime she wasn't going anywhere, not when she didn't know where she was or how she got there. The silent radio and the loss of sat communications warned that what ever had happened was serious and that it was unlikely that she was the only one affected. Caution was the sensible option and so she had dropped anchor until Ariadne had succeeded in fixing their position. However the wind had weakened noticeably in the last hour, making it less irksome that she was stopped.

She swallowed the last of her brandy at a gulp and headed back below, once she had had one last conversation with Ariadne she was for her bed, lost or not.

***

Barbossa had remained on the ship, leaving Marty to lead the shore party. Cotton had been left at the helm while the captain spent the time studying charts and debating headings. The few of the crew who had not come ashore slept or played dice below decks, everyone had heard Barbossa's night time rambling and to a man the crew were resolved to stay out of his way.

But when he appeared, just before the boats were lowered, he had seemed subdued and had said little more than to make it there and back as quickly as they could. Then he had stomped to the helm, the monkey on his shoulder, and stared silently out to sea, paying no apparent attention as the boats pulled away towards the shore.

Looking back towards the Pearl Marty felt a stab of fear wondering what was going on behind Barbossa's angry eyes. Jack Sparrow at his worst had never unnerved him as much as his current captain did, and not for the first time he cursed himself for allowing Barbossa to persuade him to abandon captain Jack. Pintel and Raggetti were warning enough of the captain's past, and he should have heeded it.

It seemed certain now that Barbossa was mad and getting madder, and angry and bitter to boot, a worse combination Marty could not think of. Just how mad he hadn't fully understood until last night.

He had been watching the two new crew members as they sat huddled together out side the cabin doors, heads together in some private conversation. There was something about the looks they kept shooting at those doors that made him more than interested in what they might be saying; though he avoided Pintel when he could he had to admit that the man's suspicions about these two were catching. Marty had known all kinds of pirates and buccaneers in his time at sea but they were something new. He'd edged towards them, rum bottle in hand, keeping to the shadows.

But as he got closer Barbossa's cries were audible through the cabin doors and they sent chills down his spine, if it had been Captain Jack in there he would have taken the bottle of rum in to him to chase away the nightmares; had done so often enough. These cries were different though, less of pain and grief and more a mix of anger and bewildered anguish, and their impact on the two newcomers was clear.  
"Maybe he is mad. Driven mad by the haunting of his death and the spectral voice of Calypso," one had said to the other in a low and frightened voice.  
"You said that about Captain Jack."  
"No, they said that about Captain Jack."  
"Yes. " the other nodded, "They did."  
"Are you saying, then, that they were confused and that they meant to say it was this captain that was mad and not the other one?"  
"Yes. No. Well yes and no. They said that Captain Jack was mad and now they are saying that Captain Barbossa is mad." He cast a worried look towards the door, "sounds as if they are right."  
"So you are saying that we should have left Captain Barbossa behind and kept Captain Jack?"  
"Yes. No." The other frowned, " They say he's mad too. " he paused, "But Captain Jack didn't seem mad when he was Mr Sparrow. Even though Admiral Norrington didn't trust him."  
"Yes, the thing with the canons."  
The other had nodded sagely,  
"Tis true that if we had done what he had said to do then fewer people would have died."

Marty had pricked his ears up at that, but the dozy pair seemed unaware that they might be overheard. Then again the sounds from within the cabin were enough to drive everything else from a man's mind; he had shuddered as the sound of cursing got louder, only to be followed by something close to a wail of despair and then a sudden silence. Not wanting to think what it might mean he had turned his attention back to the pair outside the cabin doors.  
"He was right about the Flying Dutchman too." The second one said.  
"So you are saying we were wrong to leave Captain Jack behind, that he isn't mad, though his crew say that he is?"  
"Well, yes. No."  
It was then that the noise from the cabin began again and Marty had jumped, almost dropping the rum bottle, and drawn their attention to himself. He had sauntered out to join them as if he had just arrived,  
"Both mad. Just in different ways."  
He sat down beside them.  
"Captain Barbossa, he's mad because of the curse and coming back from the dead. Captain Jack he's mad because he's Captain Jack Sparrow and everyone knows he's strange."

"Is that why the captain wanted captain Jack left behind?" the fairer of the two asked.  
Marty had stared at the cabin door for a while, the shouts were slowly being replaced by muttered curses, and then shrugged,  
"Barbossa hates Jack Sparrow, always has, since the day he set eyes on him and the Black Pearl. Captain Jack had what Barbossa thought he didn't deserve, thought he wasn't a true pirate. Barbossa always had big ideas, ambitions, but he'd never come close. Always been a mate, until the Pearl. Thought the Pearl should be his, saw his chance. At least so Gibbs said."  
He took a swig from the bottle and frowned a little,  
"Still thinks it should be, mad or not."

"What does Captain Barbossa think a true pirate is like?"  
That was the fair one again,  
Marty stared at him for a moment then shrugged again,  
"Himself. Maybe Sao Feng and Gentleman Jocard too."  
The two faces before him looked back blankly and Marty's frown deepened remembering their mention of Admiral Norrington and what Pintel had said about their oddity and their listening habits. The dark one seemed to see that and cleared his throat, leaning forward in an ingratiating manner,  
"But not Captain Jack?" he invited Marty to explain.

He'd had another swig of run while he thought about it, didn't seem much doubt really,  
"No. Not enough taste for killing to Barbossa's mind. No denying that Captain Jack will do other ways if he can." He took a further swig and grinned as he looked at the pair beside him, "Tends to keep his crew alive, but it doesn't get you rich quick."  
Both of the new comers shot a nervous glance at the cabin door, it was clear which option they preferred. Marty was only slightly surprised that he found himself in agreement, it seemed that war gave a man a whole new outlook on life.

"But why is Captain Barbossa mad?" That was the fair one again,  
"I told you, the curse. Barbossa thought that when the curse was broken it would all be as it was, but Captain Jack shot him. When Calypso brought him back he found that it wasn't any different. She promised it would be when she was released, but either she lied or she changed her mind when he locked her up. She warned him but he didn't believe her," he shrugged, "She brought him back, her power decided what it was she brought him back to."  
He shot a look at the cabin door,  
"He alive, but he's not. Death walks alongside him all the time and the shadow of it is breaking his mind. He wants to be the man he was but he can't be because he can't unknow death and what is waiting for him on the other side, and the memory won't let him rest."  
He looked at them and shrugged once again,  
"At least that's what Captain Jack told Mr Gibbs. If anyone would know what's going on in his head," he indicated the cabin doors, "it would be a man brought back from the locker."

"So is Captain Jack mad or isn't he?"  
Marty seemed to consider that for a moment then he took another swig of rum,  
"No more than usual now Mr Gibbs said. Was, for a while, but not now."  
"Why do you say that?" they asked in unison.  
Marty gave a savage grin,  
"Because that's what's making Barbossa so angry."

As the two nodded at each other he shot them a sly look and passed the bottle around, only when they had both had several swigs did he ask,  
"How did you know Admiral Norrington?"

Now as the sun strengthened in the sky he watched the two of them as they loaded barrels into the boats, and smiled as he remembered their convoluted and unconvincing stories. Each had contradicted the other of course and in their squabbling had managed to betray more than they had concealed. But what did it matter? They had burned their bridges in their desire to stay alive and now they would have to live with the consequences, just as Norrington had and Gibbs before him. They were a daft pair but they couldn't be worse than Pintel and Raggetti. No, if he could sail with a couple of men who'd spent ten years as living skeletons then he could manage to sail with a couple of failed marines.

He looked back to where Barbossa stood brooding at the rail and reflected that he might yet be shown to be sailing with something far worse than that.

***

" Let me get this straight Ariadne, you are telling me that everything is gone. No industry, no power generation, no cities."  
"No cities of the expected size and population." Ariadne corrected calmly. "There are settlements, some quite large as far as can be judged from the heat readings, but none of the size that would be expected in this part of the Caribbean as we know it."

Elanor rubbed her eyes,  
"A natural catastrophe?" she asked, not sure what answer she was hoping for.  
"Data does not indicate that. No debris, no fires, no pollution or other indicators can be identified."  
"So what? What has happened Ariadne?"  
"There is insufficient data to form an accurate hypothesis. However there is one finding that might be indicative,"  
"So tell me."  
"Several ships have been identified within scanner range and to the east of our position. The scans suggest these ships are not of a recent design, and, though it cannot be conformed at this range, the telltales strongly suggest that they are made of unmodified woods and have no means of powered sail. Moreover their heat signature also suggests that they have large crews."  
Elanor sat back in her chair and thought about that,  
"So, not part of a race?"  
"No."  
"Ships that might use tar and oil?" she asked slowly.  
"Yes. It seems likely that they would."

She let the words hang in the air for a moment then sighed, there was no point in avoiding the issue,  
"Ariadne, taking the information we have available and adopting unrestricted theorising, tell me what options are there for explaining our current situation?"  
There was a short pause before Aridane replied,  
"There is only one that is possible on the basis of current scientific thinking. That is that none of what we are experiencing is real at all. At some point you have become ill or injured and this is a hallucination. This cannot be tested ofcourse, since I am a part of your hallucination and will therefore reinforce whatever it wishes you to believe."  
Another slight pause followed before Aridane continued,  
"Alternatively there is a related possibility, though less orthodox, that this is an illusion that some party, for reasons that cannot be deduced, has manufactured, with or without intent. This also not amenable to testing for similar reasons."  
Elanor could only stare at that,  
"On great! Any other possibilities?"

Aridane didn't need to think about that,  
"None that would be accepted by current scientific views of the universe."  
"OK, well what about those not in line with current scientific views of the universe?"  
"There are several."  
"Such as?"  
"We have passed through some form of dimensional rift and that this is not the world we set sail in."  
"It gets better! Any more?"  
"We have passed through some form of warp in the fabric of space time, and we are in the same world but not the same time. Or that we have been transported to another physical world beyond Earth."  
Elanor gave that due consideration, after all Ariadne was serious about this,  
"Can't say that I like any of them," she sighed, "So either I'm mad or science has got it wrong?"  
"No. Either you are hallucinating or some part of current scientific thought is flawed."Elanor smiled at that remembering her father's favourite hobbyhorse,  
"Well it wouldn't be the first time for the latter would it? From astronomy to disease control we've got most things wrong at one time or another."

She frowned and nibbled the corner of her lip in thought,  
"Not much of a choice though is it?. Is there any possibility that the scans are wrong? Any sign of equipment malfunction at all?"  
"No, all systems are functioning correctly and cross referencing scans has shown no inconsistencies nor anomalies of any kind. Whatever the reality of it the information available is consistent within itself."  
"Which makes our visitor far more important than is comfortable."  
"Agreed. The probability is that, if what is being experienced is a reflection of an objective reality, then he is a part of it, rather than ours."  
"And if this is all hallucination my mind has manufactured him for some reason." She thought back to the man she had recently sent to sleep and smiled wryly, "Not sure that I like that as an idea, what would it say about me?"  
"I could not speculate," Aridane replied almost primly.  
"Hmmm. Don't think that I want to either. But if he's so important to us I'd better go and make sure he is OK before I get some sleep myself.

***

But he wasn't OK. Or at least he might be but she couldn't be sure because he wasn't in the cabin, and the tangled sheet on the floor told that he had either left in a hurry or in some form of panic or both.

Elanor swore, she must be really tired to forget to order the doors locked again. The drugs she had given him should not have produced disturbed sleep but it was obvious that for some reason they had. All she could hope was that he wasn't anywhere near something Aridane would feel it necessary to defend, God alone knew what a stun charge would do to him on top of a blow to the head and the dope, and that he hadn't made it to the deck and fallen overboard. With a pounding heart she picked up the fallen sheet and threw it onto the bunk then hurried from the cabin. If she had to take a guess about what he would do it would be that he'd go up.

He obviously had been on deck but was coming back down again when she met him, and quickly. His face was pale in the standby lighting and as he turned she saw the sheen of sweat on his brow. As she moved towards him he backed up until he was against the bulkhead, his hand raised as if to ward something off,  
"The ship is haunted! You've got a ghost," he shuddered in some emotion she couldn't be sure of, "I've had enough of the supernatural for a while luv, and I'm not sure I want to be on a ship that's got a ghost."  
She raised her brows  
"A ghost?" she said mildly reaching for the light switch and turning the light up.  
His eyes widened as the light increased, they seemed black in the strained face and she realised that the drugs had affected him more powerfully than she had anticipated.

For a moment he stared at her, then he seemed to decide that offence was the best method of defence in the situation and started towards her. She swore under her breath and reached for the tasar, she didn't want to risk it but she couldn't allow him to attack her; she was nearly sure she could hold him but Ariadne might decide to intervene anyway and with more serious consequences. But he saw the movement and stopped, he seemed to understand the implication of it very well. With a silent snarl he spun around in a swirl of hair and bolted for the door diving back up the stairs and towards the deck with surprising agility for a man in his physical condition. She followed at a run.

He ran out into the moonlight and stopped as if taken by surprise; as she emerged out on the deck he turned towards her, one hand extended in entreaty,  
"The Pearl. It's not the Pearl." He looked around him in dismay. "Where's the Pearl? Where has she gone," he looked back towards her again, "Why is she gone?"  
His voice was thickened with some emotion that sounded like grief.  
Elanor sighed and leant back against the hatch,  
"The Pearl is your ship?"  
He smiled a bright wide smile at the question, gold teeth glittering in the growing light.  
'It's nearly morning' she thought,' it's been a hell of a night.' She looked at him wearily as he replied to her question, his tone suddenly jaunty and confident,  
"Yes of course luv. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow of course the Pearl is my ship."  
The smile died as he looked around him again, and the swagger that had appeared so quickly disappeared,  
"But this is not the Pearl. Where is she? Why is she gone?"  
The last words echoed a despair Elanor could not understand.

"Captain Sparrow," she addressed him with careful formality, "This is my ship, The Dawn Chaser, I picked you up out of the sea a day ago. You were in a dingy, there was no other ship."  
He stood and stared at her for a moment, chest was rising and falling quickly but otherwise calm.  
"Gone. The Pearl's gone," the gold teeth flashed, "But she'll be back," the smile faded into something close to a snarl, he raised his fist and his voice took on a hard and harsh note, "and this time… this time."  
The words faded away and his hand fell, with a lost look he stared around him in silence.

High above them Aridane adjusted something and the movement, slight though it was, caught his eye, it seemed to remind him where he was and he turned to face her again, and in apparent panic.  
"You've got a ghost,"  
He seemed genuinely distressed by the idea, the flamboyantly flailing hands and swirling braids as he looked around him saying more than his words.  
"A ghost?" she asked again, he seemed to be quite serious about the idea.  
"That's what I said," he hissed the words out from clenched teeth as if restating it only worried him more, "I heard it her, it's her, she was talking to herself,… at least I hope she was. Or is this ship crewed entirely by ghosts?"

Ah, now she thought she understood.  
"A woman's voice you said, that would be Ariadne I expect."  
He frowned at her impatiently,  
"I didn't ask her bloody name, hearing it was enough. I tell you I've had supernatural creatures enough to last me a lifetime recently, a very long life at that."  
She raised her brows at the comment, obviously he had been having some very odd dreams.  
"What did this ghost want?" was all she said.  
"I don't think I want to know darlin', I just want it to stop."  
He saw her raised eyebrows and drew a deep breath,  
"Didn't listen I told you, I just wanted it to stop. " His frown deepened, "But she seemed a bloodthirsty creature, going on about keelhauling servants or some such thing. Not that I've seen any servants."  
He looked around him as if suddenly remembering that he hadn't seen a lot of other things too. Like sailors.

Elanor nodded, obviously he had overheard Ariadne making a verbal log entry, but which one?  
"Sounds somewhat unlikely, are you sure that was what she said?"  
"No I'm not sure, I just told you, I didn't want to listen," he sounded as if his patience was wearing thin,"but it was something about keelhauling servants, and time, she said a time, at least I think it was a time."  
Elanor thought hard about that,  
"Servo overhaul completed?" she hazarded  
He stared at her with narrowed eyes, suddenly as alert as he was worried.  
"Maybe." he gave a shake that set the ornaments in his hair swinging, "At least….something like that, didn't make much sense to me given the obvious lack of servants aboard this vessel."  
She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, though the truth was that he was beginning to disturb her,  
"Then it was Ariadne that you heard, and it is nothing for you to be concerned about."  
He gave very dubious look,  
"Her again. Not only a ghost but a named ghost," he muttered, "is there something I should know about this ghost?"  
She met his eyes with a bland look, and a hope that she hadn't done him any further injury in her attempts to keep him contained,  
"Only that it's probably better not to upset her, but she will do you no harm,"

His mood switched as fast as anyone she had ever seen. The smile returned and the distress disappeared from his voice, he pulled himself up and tilted his head at her, brows raised, and the look in the drug widened eyes was suddenly as cold and measuring as any she had seen from him so far. The change jolted her; harmed or not the man in front of her was not safe by any stretch of the imagination, and she had better file her guilt and concern for a later time. She matched his smile with one as chilly,  
"Just as long as you don't try and harm me that is."  
His smile widened,  
"Ah, and if I were to…… contemplate, attempt some harm against your person?" he purred,  
She matched his tone.  
"Then she would kill you, and believe me when I tell you would not see her coming."  
He watched her for a long second before dipping his head towards her as if something had just been agreed, then he bowed slightly, lowering his eyes in apparent submission,  
"Then it is fortunate that I have no intention of offering you harm of any kind  
isn't it?"

Elanor didn't believe the play acting for a moment, doped or not, but she could play the game too and so she inclined her head in acceptance of his assurances,  
"So it is, after all blood is so hard, and time consuming, to get out of the deck."  
He looked at her again and opened his eyes wide in mock confusion,  
"I wouldn't know luv, I always try to avoid spilling it," his smile was charm itself but the look was measuring again as if he were assessing her against some long-held standard.  
She met the look with its equal,  
"A point of view I would tend to agree with. In most cases," she said.  
"But you would make an exception, in the right circumstances," his voice was light and that gravely purr was back, but his eyes remained watchful.  
She nodded calmly,  
"In the right circumstances."  
He just nodded.

For a moment they stared at each other in silence, the only sound the restless hiss of the swell against the hull. He blinked first, turning away in a swirl of hair and fluttering hands to look across the decks.  
"She's a fine ship. Any captain would be proud of her."  
"This captain is proud of her."  
He looked back and smiled at her again, but this time the smile was real and almost warm.  
"I knew a woman captain once before," he said for no apparent reason, "she didn't really know her prow from her stern, but she was a rare lass with a sword. You, I think, do know the difference."  
"Oh I do that. But does that mean you think I'd be no use with a sword?"  
The words were out before she really thought about it, but hearing them she suddenly wondered what the hell did he mean about swords?  
His smile widened in that flash of gold she was coming to know and he looked at her appraisingly, and perhaps with something close to appreciation,  
"I think you'd be a rare lass at whatever was necessary at the time."  
Elanor narrowed her eyes at him and nodded,  
"Be sure of it."

As if some business between them was finished he suddenly seemed to sag, his hand going to his head as if in pain.  
"Don't know what it is I've been drinking, but whatever it was the rats had got to it. My head feels like a badly loaded canon."  
Elanor stared at him in confusion, first swords now canons, he really had been having some strange dreams. Unless… no she really wasn't going there not while she was so tired. Instead she crossed and put her hand on his arm,  
"You need to sleep."  
"Do I?"  
"Yes."  
"Oh." He looked at her hand and then smiled wearily at her,  
"Truce?"  
She smiled back,  
"Do we need one?"  
He just nodded, eyes now half closed with either pain or sleep.  
"Then truce." She replied and led him, unresisting, towards the hatch.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Finally **

Never had a bunk been so inviting, well not an empty one anyway. He had barely been aware of his surroundings when Captain Elanor had helped him onto the bed, did something to the little sun in the bulkhead and left him to darkness.

Sleep came quickly and the dreams it brought were vivid, too vivid in the end and he awoke with a start, throwing himself to the floor in panic convinced that he was being nibbled to death by crabs. For a moment he lay in the gloom and wondered where he was; then slowly memory, and the aches, returned, and with a groan and a curse he dragged himself up from the floor and back onto the comfort of the bunk. The nibbling seemed to be nothing more than the movement of the strange, soft, fabric of the shirt she had given him against his skin, but the fear was slow to drain away.

For a while he lay and listened to his own heartbeat, trying to imagine that he could also hear the lapping of the waves against the hull, reminding himself that above him was a deck and sails and the sea, not the arid sands of the locker, nor yet a scaffold and noose, so his situation could have been worse. Though it could also have been better. Without sight of the sky there was no way of judging how long he had slept but his eyes still felt gritty as if it hadn't been long enough. He was tired, sore and too sober to be comfortable in the circumstances. He moaned quietly to himself, turning onto his side and pulling the pillow around his head, rum, he wanted rum he decided, but it seemed unlikely that he was going to get any, or anything else come to that, liquor appeared to be another necessity, like sailors, missing from this ship. Now his head was starting to ache again

As he lay and waited for sleep to return Jack considered what she had told him about herself, the ship and the ghost. Not a lot now he came to review it, but on balance he thought that what she had said was nothing less than the truth, though certainly not all of it. He had seen no sign of other crew yet the canvas was perfectly trimmed and balanced and the decks were as clean as if they had been scrubbed by an army; so somewhere there must be others and if they were hiding there would be a reason for it. What that reason might be was not clear for the moment, but it could mean that she still intended him some form of harm, despite the fact that she had, so far, confined herself to mild threats.

That thought brought back her words about this Ariadne. Whatever, and whosoever, this female ghost was it obviously paid him to tread carefully around her. Particularly if it was true that he wouldn't see her coming, and for the moment it seemed safest to assume that it was the truth, given that Captain Elanor was yet to be caught out in a lie. But he had meant it when he had said that he wished her no harm. Harming her, even threatening her, would not be wise while he knew so little of the ship, even if he had been so inclined, and he had to admit to himself that at the present moment in time he wasn't. She, however, might be less restrained if provoked.

'What have I done to deserve this' he thought sleepily, 'seems wherever I turn I'm hip deep in bloodthirsty madams, I lose one and here is another to take her place.'  
But this one had something he was lacking, a ship, and, haunted though it might be, it was also as strong and fast as any he had ever seen. Not that he had ever seen anything like it, and he still hadn't worked out quite how a ship of this size could be sailed with a crew small enough to be hidden. Useful trick however it was managed, but it made him wonder just what kind of vessel it was that he had been hauled aboard. Were there other ghosts crewing it through the long nights, and if so what was their story and what part did they play in hers? He shuddered at the thought and wondered if he really wanted to know. Just when he had hoped that he was done with things not of this world, at least until he was one himself, he was suddenly in the middle of another supernatural event.

But perhaps he could live with a ghost if it would take him where he wanted to go, and, with a bit of effort and a lot of his legendary charm, he might be able to persuade this captain that a trip to find the fountain would be of benefit to all concerned. Then again she was no ordinary woman it must be remembered, this one was the captain of a ship, a large ship, and so far she had seemed more resistant to said charm than was desirable. Rather like Anamaria now he thought about it. Jack turned over and chewed on his lip as he stared up into the darkness, pity that, on all fronts. But with a little patience who knew what might be achieved?

He let his mind wander to some of the things that could be achieved with patience, which might be achieved with patience… that might be explored with patience…

He was smiling when sleep returned.

***

The trip ashore had been uneventful except for the dafter of the two new crew falling into the pool, and the ensuing arguments about who was going to haul him out. That he didn't swim was not unusual for a pirate but still Pintel had set it as a black mark against him and spent the trek back to the boats muttering about what he might have done to water and casting black looks in the hapless, and woebegone, crewman's direction. Of course the wet breeches were in part to blame for the resentment but, as all hands were needed to help haul the water back, someone had to be sent in to pull him out and his friend had seemed no better equipped to deal with the situation than the one who had fallen in. Marty had just rolled his eyes, content that no one was going to ask him to join in the rescue, and Raggetti had endured the soaking with a forlorn silence, leaving Pintel to be angry for the both of them.

By the time they made the boats the sun was high and hot and the steam was rising in a steady stream from the wetter members of the party. The anchored Pearl shimmered like a mirage in the offshore haze.

As they hauled the barrels up to the Pearl's deck he could see the captain standing in almost the same position he had been when they had left, the monkey sat on the rail beside him hunched and unhappy. Marty hadn't known Barbossa in the curse days, well other than the few glimpses he'd caught of him between being captured and being locked in the brig, but the man's posture told him all he needed to know. Barbossa was near rigid with fear.

Marty had sought out Nils as soon as the others were back aboard,  
"Has the captain moved while we've been a away?"  
The man shrugged and then shook his head,  
"Na. He jast stood there, nat sure what he be watching but it's nathing anyone else cant see."  
Marty looked back towards Barbossa and nodded slowly,  
"He's looking for her," he said.  
"Her?"  
"Calypso. He's afeared she will sneak up on him and send him back to wherever she took him from."  
Nils gave him a startled look,  
"Will she?"  
"She might. Who knows what she'll do. She was angry, and maybe she expected the Pearl to go down with the Dutchman. Now captain Jack is gone she may decide to try again."  
"Then why did we leave captain Jack behind?"  
Marty shrugged,  
"Made sense when Barbossa explained it but now…….?"

"So whaat are we going to do?"  
"Hope the captain is wrong and that she leaves us alone. Until….."  
"Until whaat?"  
Marty shot him a sideways glance,  
"We need to do something else."

***

Jack had slept deeply once sleep returned. He dreamt again but this time the dreams had been pleasant, more than pleasant, and he was glad that her opening of the door awoke him before she shook him; if it hadn't they might have found themselves at embarrassing cross purposes and there was little doubt in his mind that he would have come out the worse of the confusion. But the years of needing to wake quickly rescued him from the possible consequences and he was prepared for it by the time her hand had touched his shoulder. He contented himself with a deep sigh and looking sleepily, and hopefully disarmingly, up at her. The gesture did not appear to move her in any way and the second sigh was one of genuine regret, she was a pleasant sight to awaken too after all. Though he noticed that she seemed pale and tired as if her sleep too had been disturbed.

She had dropped something onto his legs and turned away almost as soon as he opened his eyes, heading back to the still open door as if other, more important, business called to her.  
"Make what use you want of the ship's facilities, you know where things are and everything you need is there. Your own shirt will be better for another hour or two in the sun but this should fit, leave the dirty one on the bunk for now. I'll be back to show you to the galley when I've finished my business with Ariadne."  
Then she was gone.

Jack stared dumbly at her vanishing back, rendered speechless more by her use of the word dirty in relation to his shirt than anything else. He turned over and stared at the new one in astonishment before carefully examined the one he was still wearing to see if he had bled on it in the night, he hadn't and the whiteness of it seemed dazzling to him. What kind of place did she come from that she expected to him to want to change a shirt worn for no more than a few hours, and most of those asleep?

But he had found himself more than willing to make use of that wonderful hot waterfall given the bruises he had added to his collection in the fall from the bunk, in the end he'd dallied too long and he had been caught at a disadvantage, shirt over his head, when she returned. He had glowered at her, wondering if she had done it deliberately, but she had seemed unaware of his sulk, though her prodding of the gash in his head might have been her revenge.

Whatever her longer term intensions regarding him it seemed that she intended to administer succour for his current hurts, for she had removed the bandage, wiped the wound with a little cloth taken from a small package she brought with her, then replaced the dressing and bandage with a gentle care that seemed at odds with her steely manner. That done she had explored the bruises on his face with careful fingers, then, without asking permission, she pulled his shirt up to inspect those on his chest, sighing a little at the sight of them. He had ventured a knowing smile at her, but found it wasted for she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

To his great surprise Jack found himself tolerating the mauling in silence, just watching her face as she probed his ribs, unsure whether the frown between her eyes was for his injury or something else. He wished he knew what was going through her mind as she prodded and poked him, because whatever it was it didn't seem to give her much joy. He did his best to keep the discomfort from his face, unwilling to let her see how much it hurt for fear that she might use it against him. For a moment he wished that she was like Elizabeth whose every emotion had been clear to see and easy to read.

Something was making her uncomfortable to be sure, but he didn't think it hadn't anything to do with his person; he'd never come across a respectable woman so unconcerned by naked flesh. He felt a return of his earlier unease; whatever it was that set her more than comely face in such forbidding lines might yet have a bearing on his ultimate fate. It seemed from her care of him that she was set on keeping him alive, no plans to sell his body to the authorities for the handsome price on his deceased head then; but there were those who would prefer to purchase him alive, and that was not a pleasant thought at all. Yet somehow he didn't think such betrayal figured in her current plans, for it to have done so she would need to know who he was and he rather thought that she didn't. Nor did she seem to understand the significance of the brand on his wrist, and that was very interesting.

Elanor had been surprised at his silence while she examined him; she had expected some show of pain, probably an exaggerated one, aimed at wringing some recompense from her. Yet he sat in stoical silence, staring solemnly at her and not even wincing when her fingers probed the rib that Ariadne had identified as cracked. But the tension in his shoulders and the sudden rise of his chest as her fingers found the sore spots betrayed his pain. With the kohl gone from his eyes he looked more vulnerable and the twitching of the muscles as he suppressed a wince was easier to read, but the dark chocolate stare was giving away as little as he could manage. She was surprised by a momentary urge to brush the mass of braided hair from his face, as if he were a brave child rather than a grown man who wandered around with a sword and pistol strung around him. And a shrunken head, she must not forget the shrunken head, Aridane had been emphatic that that was what dangled from his scabbard; who for goodness sake wandered around wearing a shrunken head!

But if Ariadne's speculations were right then there would be nothing childlike about him and she was suddenly glad both of certain aspects of her own history and of the tasar in her belt. Yet this very dangerous man, and it seemed likely he was that, was perhaps the only link to home, and she could not allow herself to lose sight of the fact that she might need him every bit as much as he might need her.

Ariadne had been adamant that there was no point in trying to decide whether this was hallucination or some distortion of reality as no amount of hypothesis testing was going to prove it one way or another. She had no choice but to behave as if it were real until some evidence to the contrary arose, even then it was hard to see what she could do but go with events as if they were. So Jack Sparrow, whoever and whatever he was, was both her key to what had happened and her only buffer against a world that would be alien to her. She just couldn't help feeling that it would be better if he didn't know that. Yet she couldn't see a way that she could manage to hide it and still get the information that she so desperately needed.

Finally satisfied she had turned away from him and picked up the discarded shirt,  
"They must hurt. I'll find you some more painkillers when you have had something to eat."  
Jack looked at her sideways, wondering what painkillers were, and whether the word kill was in any way meaningful.  
"Kind of you Captain Cavendish but I'm well enough," he replied as politely as his anxiety allowed, "I've had worse."  
She turned and regarded him narrowly at that,  
"Have you? What a very adventurous life you must lead. But there is no point in suffering pain for the sake of it," she looked at him closely as if struck by a novel idea, "not unless your religion requires it."  
He smiled slightly at that and shook his head,  
"Religion and I are barely on nodding terms," the smile widened, "unless business requires it of course."  
A wary look was her response to that,  
"Business? What business would that be?" she said.  
He waved a hand vaguely,  
"I am a man of many and varied interests luv."  
"Such as lending ships and borrowing ancient artefacts?" the wariness was joined by suspicion, "what do your interests add up to Captain Sparrow."He tilted his head and pouted slightly while he considered that, then he shot her a look that could only be described as devilish,  
"I'm an adventurer you might say," his hands fluttered as if indicating something, "a seeker of valuable trifles."  
He registered her raised brows and his smile took on a slightly mocking air,  
"Some of the adventures being more profitable than others."  
She seemed to consider that for a moment then returned the smile,  
"And what would others call you?"  
The surprise that brought was real enough and the smile died, his face taking on a set look,  
"Very good," he said softly then his gaze drifted down to his wrist, the edge of the brand just visible below the sleeve. The look in his eyes was hard, "Does it matter?"

She saw the look and the slightly bitter twist to his mouth and decided that Ariadne's hypothesis was almost certainly right, even though she could find no record of him, but perhaps not the whole story.  
"Not for the moment, that will wait," she got to her feet and picked up the discarded shirt, "but breakfast shouldn't."

***

They had set sail as the sun reached its highest point.

Barbossa had dragged himself from his reverie long enough to get them underway but as the sails swelled and the island shoreline sank into the distance silence had fallen upon him again. He had only roused himself when the monkeys begging reminded him that the little creature needed feeding, then he had settled himself close to the helm and fed it fruit and the endless supply of nuts that none of the crew could remember bringing aboard. While he fed the monkey he smiled and crooned to it but seemed oblivious to the crew, the ship or the sea. When it had eaten its fill and hopped up onto his shoulder his eyes took on that frowning, yet far away, look again, and, though he stayed where he was, he resumed his staring out to sea.

He remained that way even when the first cry of 'sail' went up.

For a while the crew did nothing just gathered at the rail with the tension stretching while they waited to see what manner of ship it was and whether it was prey or predator. Barbossa neither turned his head nor spoke a word, not even when the second ship was sited. Once they knew they were Navy vessels there was no time to be lost.

As before it was Pintel who grasped the nettle, with Raggetti at his heels he approached Barbossa carefully,  
"The crew was wondering what you wanted us to do sir?"  
That caught the captain's attention, though he seemed a little confused about the reason for the approach.  
"Were ye now?"  
"Aye sir. Two ships together, Navy it seems. What do we do? Run or fight?"  
Raggetti dipped his head and squinted up at his captain with a mix of nervousness and sly challenge,  
"Not likely to be carrying anything of value to us captain," he ventured.  
Pintel nodded his agreement,  
"Aye that likely be the case captain. Plenty of time to tweak the Navy's nose when we've found that treasure you mentioned."  
Raggetti gave his comrade an approving look, and nudged his arm  
"Aye, from a position of strength so to speak."  
Pintel grinned unpleasantly,  
"Like before," he added.  
Raggetti nodded and giggled.

The sound seemed to wake something in Barbossa, the far away look faded and he roared at them,  
"Scurvy dogs!" he reached for his sword, "I'll not be having cowards aboard my ship. Run from a fight would ye? " He raised his voice, "Mr Cotton steer a course towards those ships, the rest of ye to stations and prepare to engage."  
Pintel and Raggetti stared at him in shock as Marty came up behind them,  
"Captain there's two of them" he said urgently, "and at this distance they'll have plenty of time to prepare and manoeuvre once they see us coming. They'll catch us between them and crack us like a nut."  
"Aye like we did the Endeavour" Raggetti added.  
Barbossa grinned and shook his head,  
"Nay, I've a move or two up me sleeve. A fight is what we needs mateys, clear our heads and remind them that the sea has no master, no more do we."

Marty regarded him with wide eyes for a moment before trading looks with the other two,  
"A fight would be a fine thing," Pintel said with a grimace, "but maybe this ain't the one to pick? Two of them and the Pearl still needing repairs. There be better odds another time captain."  
Barbossa scowled and drew his sword a little from its scabbard.  
"Ye be starting to sound like Jack Sparrow Mr Pintel, perhaps ye no longer have the stomach to sail with me? Be that it, ye lost your nerve?"  
Rage was written in Pintel's face but Raggetti's hand came up to grasp his arm, stopping him from stepping nearer to the sneering captain,  
"No sir," he ground out, "but the odds are not good."  
Barbossa took a step closer,  
"Odds? With her against us they'll never be better than they are now. Time to fight is now matey, show her that we won't dance to her tune."

The three crew men goggled at him then exchanged a nervous look,  
"No reason to think she is behind it," Marty said slowly looking back to his captain, "with Beckett gone stood to reason that the Navy would coe back."  
Raggetti nodded and chipped in,  
" Take up where Norrington left off they will," he cast a nervous look towards the approaching sails, "sail in convoy most like, may be more of them over the horizon."  
Pintel took up the argument sounding as earnest as he could,  
"Might be what she wants captain. Lulls us like, then when we can't run lets more of them loose on us."

That seemed to get through to Barbossa and with a glare towards the horizon he pushed his sword back into his scabbard and nodded,  
"Ay that she might, t'would be like her right enough."  
As they waited to see what his decision would be another cry of 'sail' came from above. Barbossa's mouth stretched in a snarl as he pulled out his spyglass and levelled it towards the distant sails; after a moment or two he shut it with a snap,  
"Perfidious witch," he spat, "but she'll not find us so easy. Come about Mr Cotton and take a heading away from her trap. The rest of you shift your carcases and show them a clean pair of heels."With a roll of his eyes Marty led the other two back to the deck

As Pintel and Raggetti hurried to their stations the two marines approached him with hesitant curiosity,  
"What was all that about?" the darker one asked.  
Marty looked back at Barbossa for a moment then shrugged,  
"Seems like the chickens be coming home to roost for our captain."  
"Chickens, what's chickens got to do with it?" the fairer one asked.  
Marty suppressed a sigh and wished whole heartedly for Gibbs,  
"They shit a lot and it looks like we're up to our necks in it!"  
The darker one looked at the fairer one and wriggled his eyebrows,  
"I think he means we're in trouble."

Marty nodded and looked towards Pintel and Raggetti,  
"More than that. I've no taste for mutiny, tis against the Code, but unless you want one of that mad pair as captain you'd better pray that we find Captain Jack quickly."

***

The trip to the galley had involved a short walk along another passageway, past several ostentatiously closed and locked doors, to a room full of things whose purpose he couldn't imagine and didn't think he wanted to. But she had fed him, porridge she called it served with some sort of preserved fruit, and hungry though he was he had watched it warily until she had started on her own bowl. If she noticed she said nothing. Now she was sitting on the other side of the table her discarded plate pushed to one side and a cup of what she called coffee, but which didn't correspond to any beverage he had encountered under the name, clasped between her hands. .

"I think it's time that we laid our cards on the table."

Jack raised his eyes from the bowl in front of him and stared at her uneasily, wondering if, somehow, she knew about his thoughts of the night. He wasn't sure what she meant but, on balance, he didn't think it was anything that he wanted to hear. In his experience such remarks usually led to him crossing blades with someone, or running away from the need to do so. At the moment he felt ill equipped to do either.  
"Cards? What cards might those be?" he asked as innocently as he could manage.  
'Why,' he wondered, 'did he feel guilty when he was the innocent party? At least as far as he was aware he was.'

She stared back at him, the frown she had been wearing for the last ten minutes deepening,  
"How you came to be where you were, how I came to be where I was." She gave a twisted smile, "and most importantly, I suppose, the consequences of that juxtaposition."  
She took another swallow of coffee, carefully not looking at him,  
"and where we go from here."  
Jack blinked at her,  
"Go? Where were you planning on going? You must have some destination in mind. Much though I love the sea most voyages have a reason, even if it's only to get away from something." He filled his spoon again and stared at it, "or someone," he added reflectively.

She looked up at that, her eyes narrowing in something he thought was amusement,  
"You find the need to do that often do you? Get away from something or someone?"  
He shrugged, swallowed, and looked down as he dipped his spoon in his breakfast again,  
"Maybe." He paused for a moment then let his eyes flick back to her face, "don't you?"  
That brought another smile, but one reflective and slightly sad,  
"I suppose so. I suppose that's what I'm doing at the moment."  
Jack swallowed and then shrugged,  
"'Tis the nature of things luv, we all are one way or another."  
She just nodded at that.

Jack let the silence hang for a moment,  
"So what are these cards we need to lay?" he said eventually,  
She sighed,  
"Do you remember how you came to be aboard my ship?"  
He grimaced and shrugged,  
"A little, not all. I remember being at sea in a dingy, then a mist, then a shadow in the mist, then nothing until I woke up minus my clothes and effects in your charge."  
She frowned at his choice of words but didn't protest. He met her eyes squarely,  
"I assume your ship was that shadow."  
She nodded slowly,  
"I think so. One moment there was just me and the sea then next you were there and the Chaser sailed over the top of you."  
His eyes widened for a second and then he smiled broadly and levelled a finger at her,  
"Ha. Which means you owe me a boat luv."  
She tilted her head and smiled slightly,  
"Which means I owe you a dingy Captain Sparrow, something I will be pleased to provide for you when the opportunity presents itself. In the meantime I am quite willing to drop you wherever it is you wanted to go, which, given the vessel you were sailing, can't be far away. Can it?"

Jack concentrated on the nearly empty bowl in front of him,  
"Not sure how to answer that." He said eventually,  
For once she curbed her unkind tongue and answered without sarcasm or cynicism,  
"I am hoping that you can, because although I know roughly where I am, I've got no idea how I came to be here."  
"No more do I. I will confess that I've never seen a ship like yours before and I've sailed all the known oceans," he stared pensively at his spoon for a moment then shrugged, "and at least one of the unknown ones."  
"Yes," she said slowly looking down into her cup again, "I was afraid that you might say something like that."  
He put the spoon down and stared at her with narrowed eyes,  
"Why should that cause you concern? You and that ghost of yours seem more than capable of taking care of yourselves." There was note of something close to resentment in his voice. "You destroy my boat, hide my effects, question me about my compass and hold me prisoner. What is there for you to be afraid of? I've told you that I mean you no harm, yet you lock me up and threaten me with sudden death."

For a moment something like shame flitted across her face, then she sighed and looked down into her cup,  
"I know, and I'm sorry for it, but I have to be careful. I can't have a sword wielding stranger running about the decks."  
"Why not, if your crew are anything like that ghost of yours then I wouldn't have much chance of doing any damage now would I?"  
She gave him a long hard look,  
"No you couldn't do much damage. Ariadne wouldn't allow it, " her mouth set in a harsh line, "but there is no crew. I'm sailing single handed, there is just me and Ariadne."  
Jack stared at her in disbelief,  
"And where were you sailing to alone with just this ghost for company?"  
She shrugged and smiled,  
"Around the world."  
Her regarded her as if she were mad,  
"Around the world? All the way around?"  
She nodded,  
"On your own?"  
"Yes. And I'm not sailing once around the world, but twice."

His eyes widened even further,  
"Around the world? Twice? On your own? With a ghost?"  
"Yes, double circumnavigation. I was racing."  
"Racing, other people? Sailing on their own?"  
"Yes. We all sail on our own."  
"Why?" he almost squeaked.  
She shrugged,  
"To prove that we can."  
"Why would you want to do that?"  
"It's a long story and one I won't burden you with. But I mean what I say, the crew is just Ariadne and me. But don't get any thoughts that we might be helpless."

Jack remembered the events of the previous evening and gave a twisted smile, he didn't doubt that she was telling the truth about that for she was stronger than she looked. He had fallen once on the journey down from the deck and she had pretty much picked him up and set him on his feet with no more effort than he would have had to make to do the same for her, he didn't understand quite why but the recollection gave him some pause for thought, reminding him that making assumptions about her could be dangerous.  
"I didn't think you were luv, though I can't imagine why anyone would chose to do so lonely a thing." He winked at her, "though I suppose there are ports enough along the way."  
She shook her head,  
"No ports. We aren't allowed to make port during the race."  
Now he was astonished,  
"Twice around the world, single handed and no making port? 'Tis madness if it could be done!" He looked down at the empty bowl, "What about food and water, you must need to take on supplies."  
"No, I carry what I need. What I don't carry I do without."  
He thought about that and his heart sank, he had been right about the rum then.

Jack stared at her for a moment longer, if she could do that then she was a fine sailor and this was indeed a ship in a million. A ship like that could go anywhere, and perhaps find things that were more than just lost. He felt the smile return to his lips,  
"This race of yours, what is the prize?"  
She looked down an uncomfortable look flitting across her face,  
"Nothing that would be of value to you."  
"Oh." He attempted to cover the disappointment but didn't quite manage it, then he leaned across the table towards her, "but you don't know what might be of value to me. Do you?"  
She raised her brows,  
"Well, nothing of monetary value, which I think probably covers it."  
He tried looking hurt again,  
"You under estimate me luv, there are many things of little monetary worth that I might value. But why haven't I heard of this race of yours?"  
"Ah, there in lies the problem."  
"Does it?"

She took another swallow of coffee then sighed,  
"Answer me one question, and I know it's going to sound bizarre but humour me, will you?"  
He gave a sort of half shrug and indicated that she should go on and ask her question.

"Ariadne thinks this might be the eighteenth century, just how far out is she?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 - The ship is real enough**

This time they escaped the Navy, though it had not been as easy as the crew would have liked. The three ships had been close enough to identify them and had immediately given chase.

They had proved both persistent and tenacious and, though unable to match the Pearl's speed, they had managed to stay close enough for escape to be far from certain. Never close enough to engage, but always within spyglass distance, they began a game of cat and mouse that had Barbossa spinning the wheel and hollering new orders every half hour or so, and the crew's muscles screaming. One man nearly fell, only a tangled ankle stopping his head first pitch to the deck; it would be a while before he walk with any ease again but this time he held on to his life.

Even when darkness fell the pursuit continued and though they ran dark, with all the risks that brought, their pursuers seemed stuck to their tail.

The following day bought no respite, all three of them back within view, their larger crews and ranks of officers giving them the advantage over the Pearl's wearied men and her desperate captain. The crew tried not to look at Barbossa for he was more hollow eyed than he had since their return from Singapore, even the monkey seemed weary. Barbossa could guess at the mutterings though they never let him see them, and in the odd moments that the Navy vanished from view he thought he heard the whispers on the wind and cursed. He tried every trick he knew and still they remained stubbornly on his back, in the end he found himself wondering what Sparrow would have done, the realisation of what he was thinking bringing a sickness to his stomach.

The pursuit continued through the second day, pushing them away from the course he wished to take, the one that would bring him close to the chart and the fountain. By the end of the second day they were all exhausted and further from his intend course than Barbossa was willing to admit even to himself.

They would have been pushed further off course, and might even have been trapped, but for an odd storm that blew up on the third day, bringing winds that gave the Pearl an unmatchable advantage and allowing her to escape at last.

***

If Jack Sparrow had ever had any doubts that the events of the last months had marked him forever then being faced with a woman who insisted that she hailed from the far flung shores of the future dispelled them.

For had he not been so marked the sheer madness of her......madness would have sent him scurrying for a hiding place; but though he was temporarily struck dumb by the nature of her claims he neither ran nor made any attempt to calm her. No, instead of wondering what type of sickness it was that ailed her, or looking around for some possibility of restraining her in her ravings, as any sane man might do, he found himself regarding her closely and giving her words, and her claims, serious consideration.

At least once the first shock and reflex denials had passed he had. Not at first though, then he just sat and stared at her open mouthed as she had repeated that first body blow of a question.  
"The eighteenth century? How far out is she in her calculations?"

Even as most of him gawped at her in stunned silence some part of his brain was on a different tack. This Aridane, this ghost, engaged in calculations did she? Calculations that a woman as serious minded as Captain Cavendish here, a woman so far caught out in neither levity nor gullibility, gave weight to? Interesting.

The rest of him played for time, hands exploring the bench he sat on for some possible weapon as every body hair tried to stand on end.

"Eighteenth century?" he asked warily.  
She frowned at him,  
"Yes, sometime after seventeen hundred and one and before eighteen hundred and one." She paused to refill her cup, setting the pot on the table with a snap that made him jump, "It seems that the population statistics and the settlement patterns suggest sometime between sixteen eighty and seventeen fifty allowing for historical inaccuracies."  
She looked at him with her head cocked as if she expected a serious response.  
"Historical inaccuracies?" he tried the phrase for size still staring at her as snake might face a mongoose, wishing to be elsewhere but unwilling to risk fleeing.  
The expectant expression on her face didn't change, though she shrugged slightly,  
"Well there always are some of those, no data is perfect given the time span involved. Ariadne seems to think that the design of the ships in the area suggest that the early seventeen hundreds is most likely, but as there is no way of knowing how long they have been in service the window of possibility needs to be wider."  
Jack took a deep breath, and leaned back from the table slightly, not that he was afraid of her he insisted to himself just to be able to see more of her and better judge her mood.  
"Yes luv, I can see that it would be."  
She waited for a moment then frowned slightly,  
"You don't believe me, " she shrugged again, "But nor would I believe me if I was sitting where you are. As I said just humour me and tell me how far out she is."

Jack swallowed quickly finding that his mouth was still agape and took a hurried drink from his cup wincing as the hot fluid burned his throat, how could it still be hot when the pot had been on the table the best part of half an hour? Yet more strangeness that needed to be accounted for.

He grimaced and set the cup down,  
"Eighteenth century would be about right." He stared at her in consternation as she nodded apparently unfazed by his words.  
"And the year, will you tell me that?"  
"Does it matter? What's a year or two between a captain and her ghost?" the words were out before he could stop them. He couldn't quite believe what he had just said.  
She just smiled slightly,  
"It might, though I'll grant you that the century is enormity enough."  
Jack raised his eyebrows feeling the dressing rasp against his hair line, and it reminded him of another little bit of weirdnessE even so the sum of it couldn't be that impossible,  
"Not for me luv. For me it's quite usual."

That caused her drop her eyes down to her cup,  
"Yes Ariadne seemed pretty sure that it would be."  
She looked up again and her expression had hardened. With a flick of her head she indicated his forearm, the brand clearly visible on his unusually clean skin,  
"She also thinks that means that you're a pirate, or were, one who got caught but escaped the gallows for some reason."  
Jack kept his face still but cursed silently, mad she might be but stupid didn't seem to go alongside it,  
"Maybe. Well informed this ghost of yours." He heard the uncertainty in his own voice with dismay and struggled to bury it, "but if she isn't sure of the year you are in why would she be sure of that?"  
The woman opposite locked eyes with him but smiled again, though the smile had an edge that caused Jack to suppress a shudder,  
"She can find things out it's true and it's a reasonable supposition given that you were carrying a loaded pistol and a sword both of which would match her estimation. Which are, incidentally, still locked in my strong room."

Jack nodded at his recognition of her meaning but matched her smile, though his heart sank at the reminder that this mad woman was still his captor, at least until he could get to his effects. However insane she might be he was not leaving this ship without them.

But he needed to head off her current line of thought if he could, reminding her of her sin and his hurts, might help  
"Ah but I was alone at sea in a dingy when you ran me down luv,"  
He saw her sudden hesitation and assumed an innocent look,  
"minding my own business but not necessarily safe from those who might want to make me their business. In the circumstances would you have gone unarmed?"  
She let her eyes drift over the brand again but then she sat back and her smile softened slightly,  
"No, of course not. I'd blame no man or woman for fighting to defend themselves given that I'd be more than ready to do the same." She drew a deep breath, "But you still haven't answered my question, what year is it."

It was then that his doubts really started.

"Ah well, not sure I can help you there, not with the desired degree of exactitude you might say."  
Now it was her turn to stare,  
"Why not? Even if you were in prison you must have some idea of the year you were committed and how long you served."  
Jack squirmed in a sudden spurt of irritation, bloody woman, why was she so sure that he'd been locked up?  
"Prison, why do you assume I was in prison? I've told you I was minding me own business, me own innocent business, when you ran me down."  
"I'm sorry, I meant no offence, but why else would you not know the year?"  
"Why would I when you don't?"  
"That's different, I've told you, I'm not where I'm supposed to be."  
"Well why assume I am?"  
"Because you just said you were?"  
"Did not!"  
"Yes you did."  
"Did not! Said it might be the eighteenth century, that's all. Don't know that it is, if you've travelled some way in time I might have done so too."  
Jack tried hard not to listen to what he had just said.

But it seemed to have an effect on her,  
"Yes." She sounded surprised, "You might at that." She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head, "No it doesn't work, you recall seeing the Chaser appear, which suggests that you stayed where you were."  
"There was a mist, I might have moved without knowing it."  
"You don't think you would have noticed?"  
"Did you?"  
"True. But Ariadne seems to think you and your belongings fit with what else is here, while we most certainly don't."  
"Oh."  
He thought about that, steering his thought carefully around what else this bloody Araidne might have come up with, sooner or later he and this ghost were going to have a long and meaningful conversation! He tried to shake the thought away,  
"Well that's as maybe." He pointed at her with the pretty, bright, spoon she had provided, "but that doesn't mean that it's so." He drew a deep breath and shrugged dropping the spoon back onto the table, "Eighteenth century or no I can't give you the precise year because to be honest I'm not sure of it."  
Now it was her turn to look confused, she stared at him not even rising to his bait of the word honest.  
"Why ever not?"

Jack thought about that one, suddenly taken aback by the sheer improbability of what he had been about to say. How could he tell this mad woman that he didn't know the year because he didn't know how long, precisely, he had been dead? He frowned to himself, it had to have been two year at least given that the others had needed time to get to Tia Dalma, collect the unfortunately resurrected Barbossa, find and equip a ship, pick up a crew, get to Singapore, then sail from there to the edge of the world and beyond. But that was not a chain of events he really wanted to discuss with a woman who claimed she came from the future.

But then given those recent events was her claim so impossible? Any sane man would tell you that it was not possible to move in time, but then any sane man would tell you that the dead couldn't be returned to the world of the living.

But then again why not?

It was then that it occurred to him that a man who knew he had been dead and in the locker and who was now very much alive, and drinking her coffee, should perhaps hesitate about assigning madness to a woman who claimed to come from another of the seas beyond the map.

If there was a map that allowed you to plot a course to the seas beyond the world men knew, to the locker and beyond, then why should a course to the future be so impossible? He found himself blinking at his own thoughts and wondering if her madness was catching. But then again was it all so much more deranged than a ship crewed by a ghost? Yet he had heard that ghost with his own ears, and his hearing, like his eyesight was as good as ever. No, there was something very strange about her and her ship and perhaps the future was as good an explanation as any other. After all the ship was real enough.

So he had allowed her to pour him another cup of her coffee, she was very polite for a mad woman it had to be admitted, and made no move to escape from her and her madness or the uncomfortably terrifying implications of her story. Instead he settled himself more comfortably, and steered the conversation back to her and her ship.  
"Where exactly in the future do you say you come from?"  
"That depends on where we are now?" she came back as quick as a flash.  
Jack narrowed his eyes at her,  
"Let us say, for the sake of avoiding any further disagreement between us, from seventeen twenty five. Not that I'm saying it is you understand, seventeen twenty five I mean, but if it were."  
She frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged slightly,  
"Four hundred years give or take a year or few."  
Jack thought about that for a moment trying to decide if that idea was more lunatic than the idea of the locker or not.  
"Four hundred!" he repeated more for something to say than because he disbelieved her, if she was from the future then four hundred years was as good an interval as any other.  
She nodded,  
"I set sail on the 25th of January 2105. I've been at sea for five months."

Jack stared at her again the cup halted half way to his lips,  
"Five months? Alone, just you and this ghost of yours?"  
"Yes I told you. I sail alone but for Ariadne."  
Jack stared at her for a moment longer, five months was a long time to be alone, to be without human contact, without.. ..company. He put that thought away for future consideration, along with the admission that madness, if that what it be, did not make her any the less beautiful. Or less desirable, and he certainly didn't want to think about that aspect of her, well not yet anyway. With some effort he dragged his thought back to immediate events,  
"So four hundred years from now, you set sail in your fine ship to race some people you don't want to talk about, for a prize you don't want to talk about, and ended up here in a manner you . .....don't want to talk about. Is there anything you do want to talk about? Like how you sailed over me perhaps, and why you are holding me prisoner and what exactly it is you intend to do with me now?"  
Jack had felt his sense of grievance growing as he talke,d but suddenly a new and more pressing thought emerged. Eyes wide he waved a hand in her direction.  
"Come to that luv, if you have travelled back four hundred years what exactly do you plan to do with yourself now? Eh?"

She stared back at him, her face expressionless,  
"Oh believe me Captain Sparrow that same thought has occurred to me."

***

Barbossa didn't want to sleep, didn't want to go to the great cabin, but nor could he stand on deck knowing that the men around him were plotting his downfall, not when he couldn't find will or the fire to put an end to it. He had sent Cotton to his hammock and taken the helm himself, if they were going to take the ship then they would do so while he was still truly captain. So far there had been no move towards him, the crew had glowered and whispered but they had taken the opportunity to rest once the Navy was lost, and to eat something more than hard tack and water, the most any of them had been able to snatch while the pursuit continued. Maybe it was the gnawing of their bellies that stayed their hand, ot the languor following a meal after the days of running up and down the lines and hauling canvas. Either way the respite could not last.

He was convinced that they would mutiny now; it was only a matter of time. Hours, days or weeks, no way of telling, but each moment a torment of indecision and stomach churning, hopeless, anger. They would take him down, no denying it, even with pistol and sword he would not be able to hold them, they were too many and he was too tired. What they would do with him then he didn't know; he stroked the monkey on his shoulder and hoped they would let little Jack be. The thought of his possible fate caught at his throat more than any fear for himself.

Sparrow at least had not seen it coming, the mutiny had been unexpected and he had not had to endure the long drawn of out hours of wondering who and where it would come from. Barbossa found himself reliving that night over and over again as he stood at the helm, his coat flapping in the wind that whispered to him.

Jack Sparrow had been young then, too young, and for all his ancestry and his devious ways he had been, at bottom, an honest man. Or at least more honest than his crew. Though looking back perhaps he had been more honourable than honest, for he had done no more than honour the democratic traditions of piracy, done nothing other than to keep to the code. Given his parentage maybe that was to be expected. Barbossa had heard much of Teague but had never met him before the Brethren court; seeing him for the first time had done much to explain Sparrow's oddness for Barbossa admitted to himself that he would not have liked to have the keeper for his sire.

No Sparrow had done nothing more than many other a pirate captain might have done in similar circumstances and not expected mutiny for it. Yet Barbossa still felt that Sparrow had been honest then, whatever changes time had wrought upon him, and he had despised him for it then as he despised him still. That feeling had driven him on then just as it had driven him to leave the man at Tortuga, though now the feeling sat ill at ease beside his fear of him. There had been no fear then, only a sense that his time had come and that he stood on the brink of great things; wealth and power and ease just to name three. So they had dragged Sparrow from his bed, tied his hands behind him and given a beating to remember them by, then, when he had said nothing they had beaten him again for his refusal to plead. The lad had been proud then, too proud, now, so many years later, Barbossa wondered how much of his own dislike had been down to that.

"Captain?" Marty's voice came from beside him.  
"Aye, what be it you be wanting?"  
"Where are we heading?"  
Barbossa felt his hands tighten in the wheel, but he schooled his face to unconcern and kept his eyes on the horizon.  
"Back towards Jack Sparrow and the fountain. Navy drove us off course and we've time to make up."  
"And if the Navy be waiting for us?"  
"Nay, they won't be thaat. They'll be long gone now, heading for Port Royale I'll be bound. Long journey from England and they won't have expected the siting of us, nay matey they'll be wantin' a safe bearth and a little comfort before they come alooking again."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pintel down on deck staring up towards them, the man's expression was easy enough to read, he be wondering what they were talking about. So there was no unity amongst the crew, then. Not yet. Barbossa thanked his luck for the man's belligerence, it would make it hard to persuade the others to follow him and it seemed that Marty was not yet ready to walk a path to mutiny. He felt the pressure inside him ease a little, and smiled for the first time in days,  
"Ay we've time enough, Navy'll not look for us where we've already been. We've time."

Maybe if he said it often enough he would come to believe it.

***

The sun was high and the wind was brisk, above them the furled canvas shifted and he thought that he could feel the ship pull at the anchor as if anxious to be away and heading towards the horizon, a feeling he was in complete agreement with.

Jack sat at the rail, his feet dangling over the edge, watching the fish jump. His captain, he supposed he had to accept her as such for the moment, and to his great surprise he found the idea less irksome than he would have supposed, was still below engaged in some business she hadn't deemed it necessary to divulge, but probably related to their conversation of earlier. Talking to her ghost no doubt, and taking care to stay out of his earshot. She had told him a little about how she had found herself in these waters and for the moment he was disposed him to believe that she had genuinely not known where she was. Odd thought that, but one that seemed to be growing on him.

Of course now she was here she was facing a problem, and not only what to do about him; understandably she had no wish to be seen but then nor could she stay anchored here. He looked around and smiled slightly, he could understand her caution; if he hadn't loved the Pearl so much he might well have coveted this powerful and beautiful lady. Others certainly would.

If the truth be told he was feeling a little covetous anyways, and not only for the ship.

"Captain Sparrow."  
Her voice came from behind him and he jumped, guiltily aware of the direction of his thoughts and he smoothed his face carefully before he turned to see her approaching from the direction of the hatch with a glass in either hand. His spirits rose as he saw the depth of golden fluid in each of them, for it certainly didn't have the look of coffee. Though nor did have the look of held one glass out, slightly hesitantly it seemed,  
"A restorative, help you over the shock of colliding with the future."

Yes there was definitely a hint of uncertainty about her, the first he'd seen so far, but that didn't mean he could let down his guard for that face and body could so easily put him at a disadvantage. He took the offered glass noticing again the length and strength of the elegant fingers,  
"Very civil of you Captain Cavendish, a restorative would be much appreciated." He squinted at the contents of the glass being offered, "Rum?" he asked hopefully.  
She shook her head sending the sun dancing in her hair, and her smile seemed to catch it, he sighed silently, there was nothing fair about the wench at all.  
"Sorry, I don't drink it so I don't carry it. Brandy. Will that do?"  
He smiled up at her, and held out his hand,  
"Most certainly luv, but remind me to take your drinking habits in hand."  
He thought about extending the sentence but caught her eye and decided to leave that for another time.  
She seemed to consider that offer for a moment then raised her brows at him,  
"Oh, planning on staying around that long are you?"  
H e tipped the glass to her in acknowledgment,  
"Seems I don't have much to say on that," he said gently.  
Her smile widened a little but she didn't respond.

Jack took a deep swallow of his drink and nearly dropped the glass, but he managed to place it carefully on the deck before he gave into the choking that threatened to stifle him. Finally when he could breath again he squinted up at her frowning at the amusement he thought he could detect in her eyes.  
"Brandy did you say?"  
She came closer and stood behind him, staring out at the sea,  
"Sorry I should have thought. Brandy from the future, probably quite different to what goes by the name around here."  
Jack took a deep breath, and a short swallow; it brought back memories,  
"Reminds me of some I took off a French man o' war once. Barrel of it there was, hidden inside a chest. Think the captain cried more for that then he did for the gold or powder."  
He smiled at the remembrance then he recalled whom he was talking to and grimaced, burying his nose in the glass and the wonderful aroma of its contents.

But if she understood the implication she pretended not to. Though it might have been because she had something else on her mind  
"What did you mean when you said that you had had enough of the supernatural?"  
She took a mouthful from the contents of her glass, and looked down at him, "What is enough and how did you get involved with it in the first place?"  
Jack sighed silently, he knew that it had to come, she was going to want to know why he was aboard a dingy alone in the middle of the sea; only her preoccupation with her own position had staved it off this long, Somehow he didn't think she'd believe that he'd been fishing, the absence of net being something of a hole in that story. But his instinct was to say as little as possible.

He turned to her with a depreciating look and a sweep of his hand,  
"It's a long story, and one that few would choose to believe."  
He saw her eyes narrow and suppressed another sigh,  
"Oh? Less believable than a door in time and space is it?" she said.  
Jack wriggled uncomfortably at the reminder, no denying that t'would be hard to trump her story for improbability. He played for time by taking another long drink, but he was surprised when her hand came down onto his shoulder, the grip of her fingers strong and warm,  
" Couldn't really be stranger than that now could it?" her fingers tightened a little, "Anyway, I've always thought of myself as open-minded, so try me," she said.

Jack turned back to face her, the lewd quip dying unspoken as he met her eyes. He gave a slight shrug and stared away and out to the horizon, then he resigned himself to the inevitable,  
"Well now," he set his glass down carefully and looked back towards her folding his hands on his knees and adopting his most earnest and honest expression, "have you ever heard of Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman?"  
She regarded him with that narrow eyed amusement he was coming to recognise,  
"Yes, I've heard of Davy Jones but what relevance does that story have to you?" was all she said.  
Jack smiled at her and raised his hand, one finger extended in a gesture of explanation  
"Well it depends on what you mean by my story luv," he looked up at her from under his eyelashes feeling her brandy warm in his blood and a sudden recklessness taking possession of him, "and have you ever heard of the East India Trading Company?"  
She inclined her head in understanding,  
"Yes I think so."  
He raised his hand to hers, taking her fingers in his and letting his voice soften,  
"Well my story," he said earnestly, "is the tale of how the one met the other, how they swore a hell pact to control the seas, and the battle that followed."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 - Do we have an accord **

"We will need ta mind Barbossa more closely if ta Black Pearl is to survive, Lady."

Calypso watched the winds swell the Pearl's sails carrying her quickly towards the horizon. Behind her the Navy men cursed and wondered at the change of weather.  
"Him mind nat be broken yet but death sits close at him shoulder."  
The Lady nodded as she watched the ship fade into the distance, her faint smile unchanging.

Calypso narrowed her eyes as she watched the departing Pearl,  
"The crew be nat far from mutiny, will tat serve our purpose? Barbossa knows more tan they about ta direction of ta fountain and Jack Sparrow, if it be in ya mind ta deliver ta Black Pearl back to him then mutiny be best avoided."  
The Lady said nothing and Calypso frowned,  
" But ta visitor's ship is strange ant fast, is one ship nat enough?"  
The light around the Lady glowed gold and silver but there was no further answer, other than the flick of her fan as she spread it towards the sky. Calypso could see the medallions on it shining in the sun, two ships were painted there, two ships and two captains, and something else she could not fathom, something shrouded in mist. What the Lady chose not to show? Or something still so uncertain that even she could not determine its' course?

That thought was unsettling, but unchangeable.

The sea goddess inclined her head in acceptance,  
"Very well, I wilt nat ask why that be needful, nor whose fate it be tat ya be showing me."  
She looked back towards the three ships,  
"Tis best tat we keep ta Navy busy for a mite longer if Barbossa is to be safe away, he caan nat be trusted to wint ta day any langer."  
As she spoke the seas heaved and the wind shifted again, and high above the pursuing ships dark clouds suddenly gathered.

The Lady inclined her head in thanks and disappeared into the quickly failing light.

Calypso smiled as she watched the sailors hurry to prepare for the storm. She let it grow slowly as she watched, for she bore them no ill will, not yet, and would not demand their destruction. But it would be pleasing to show them a little of their powerlessness in the face of her will; once the thought would not have occurred, but she had been in human form long enough for the taste of such power to still be sweet.

The Pirate Lords had a lot to answer for.

***

"In my world there is no goddess of the sea, no cursed gold, nor undead sailors. There is no Davy Jones." Elanor gestured towards Jack with her glass, "Oh there is a legend sure enough, the story of The Flying Dutchman is popular amongst those who like tales of the sea. But he never lived, never cut out his heart and put it into a chest."

Jack seemed to think about that for a moment whilst rolling a small gulp of brandy about his mouth and looking in silence towards the woman sitting beside him, her legs dangling alongside his own, hair stirring like a wind blown halo. A brandy bottle was set carefully on the deck between them, along with the remnants of some very odd, and palatable, biscuit and a lump of something she called pate.

She had heard his story in patience, asking just a few questions, but questions that gave him no reason to doubt either her intellect or her experience. Only once had she shown any reaction, other than tolerant curiosity, and that had been a moue of distaste at some comment about Beckett, an expression that he judged to be more about the man in question than his own words. He hadn't wanted to examine why that one gesture had so pleased him, or brought him such relief. But gradually the tensions between them had eased, whether because she had decided to believe him or because she had set him down as sun maddened fool he couldn't be sure. When she had produced first more food, and then the brandy bottle, he had decided that, for the moment, it didn't really matter. Now, it seemed, that she was in the mood to talk a little more about herself, a good thing if only what she said had made more sense.

Finally he swallowed the brandy,  
"Are you sure of that?" he gestured towards the ocean with his glass, "Tis a big place after all."

She stared at him with wide eyes and a falsely innocent smile,  
"Captain Sparrow, my parents were both physicists and they taught me early in my life that little is what it seems to be," she waved her glass towards him, "and that half of what should be in the universe isn't there. So why should things being there when they shouldn't be there be any harder to accept? And, as one of my favourite authors had someone say, 'there is the quantum; there's always the bloody quantum.' So no of course I'm not sure of it."  
Turning her eyes back to the sea she took a deep swallow of brandy,  
"I'm not sure of anything in the damned universe and never have been. It doesn't worry me, I don't do certainty and I don't need it." She looked sideways at him again, eyes shining with unexpected mischief, "fortunately for you. Of course it makes me a great trial to my few friends and my remaining family, and a downright affront to almost everyone else I meet."

He considered that with a slight frown, licking the remnants of a meat smeared biscuit from his fingers with obvious pleasure while he did so; then, raising his glass to clink against hers, he grinned,  
"Here's to disappointing relatives, and discomforting everyone else luv."

She stared at him for a moment then returned the salute,  
"Agreed." She swallowed another sip of brandy, "but it doesn't change anything. In my world it is very unlikely that Davy Jones was ever anything more than a story. But here, assuming even a small portion of what you say is the truth," she narrowed her eyes at him, the mischief turning momentarily to ice, "and I'm reserving judgement on most of it," she looked away again "then he is real. So are Aztec curses and mythical sea beasts."  
She took another drink and was silent for a moment or two, before drawing a deep breath,  
"And that, Captain Sparrow, raises some very uncomfortable possibilities. Very uncomfortable indeed." Her eyes turned down to stare at her glass as if seeing it for the first time then she downed the contents in one gulp, before refilling it, "It may be even harder to get home than I thought."

Jack stared at the sea in silence for a moment before taking another swallow from his own glass, the soft bite of the spirit reminding him that this was not what he was used to, another telltale of the strange world she claimed to hail from. But he was not a fool and navigation came naturally to him and with it all the implications of her story,  
"You mean, I suppose, that you might not have sailed in a straight line." He turned to look at her, squinting against the falling sun and the ropes of hair blowing across his eyes, "not just in time but across some other current too."  
For a moment surprise showed in her face and then her mouth twisted in wry smile, then she raised her refilled glass in salute,  
"Very good Captain Sparrow, I mean exactly that."  
She turned back to the sea,  
"In my world we would call that current a reality. If I have crossed realities as well as time then your world is not just a precursor to mine, it is another variant completely. A parallel story if you like, two worlds running side by side starting in the same place, perhaps, but drifting apart over time."

He was quiet again for a moment, considering that, and wondering just how many glasses of brandy she had now consumed; certainly as many as he had for the bottle had been full when they started it and now it appeared to be nearly empty. Was that what had loosed her tongue, or did she have some other reason for talking so freely? Her expression gave nothing away and she seemed no more the worse for drink than she had at the first glass, whatever else she might be the wench could hold her drink. Something to be allowed for in their future dealings. He looked back towards her in time to meet a sardonic glance and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew just what he was thinking, so he smiled brightly at her before turning his mind back to what she had just said. Reconsidering her words brought an uncomfortable thought and a frown,  
"So which one is real. This one or the one you come from?"

Elanor watched his consideration of the brandy bottle and the noted the look of faint regret that flashed across his face before he caught her looking at him and turned on that brazen, and unashamedly wicked, smile. She suppressed a sigh, dealing with him would be so much easier if only he hadn't been as much a game player as she was herself. History had never been an abiding interest for her and she couldn't recall what games of chance they played here, but somehow she was sure that he played a reasonable game of chess. He could also follow an argument too and as he thought her words through his dark eyes were bright with thought and hard with calculation; there was no teasing or playfulness in him now, just a deadly seriousness. No, she couldn't complain at how quickly he followed her meaning, if she had to mow down someone she might have done worse given the difficulties of the circumstances.  
"Both are real in themselves, but unreal to each other," she said, and then shrugged at his raised eyebrows, "It might be that your world is a spin off from mine, or mine may be a spin off from yours. Or it could be both, I suppose. Each of our worlds could have forced the other, mine by a belief, even a need for the extraordinary, yours by an equal need for something else. Maybe if we need or want or believe in something badly enough we can make it happen somewhere, create worlds where they are real. Who can tell what permutations might occur or what the ramifications might be."

She watched the sun play in the golden depths of the brandy for a long moment while he just stared at her in frowning silence, then she turned to face him with a slight, depreciating, smile,  
" Or maybe I'm just imagining all of this, and you don't really exist."  
Her smile widened as she saw the downward turn of his mouth as if he had just been insulted.  
"I seem real enough to me!"  
A small laugh escaped her,  
"Of course if you are all in my fevered imagination then it probably means you are also some unexpressed portion of my own personality. Not an idea I'm predisposed to prefer," she said dryly.  
That brought a complicated shrug from him and a look that was somehow hurt, a hurt that appeared genuine enough to cause an unexpected stab of guilt, after all he had not asked to be here and he had given her no real reason to offer him gratuitous insult. She had caused this situation, however unintentionally, and she was accepting his story because it was no more absurd than Ariadne's analysis. So she sent him a slight smile of apology before turning back towards the reassurance of the sea and sky,  
"As I said there's always the bloody quantum so who knows?"

Jack wondered for a moment what this 'bloody quantum' was, it sounded interesting and possibly valuable, which made it all the more interesting; but then her words settled in his brain and he got sidetracked on the thought of some of his own desires and the worlds they could create. He grinned and raised his glass to hers again,  
"I'll drink to that luv. A world where Hector Barbossa fell overboard and got swallowed by the Kracken, where Cutler Bloody Beckett died at birth and where goats give rum not milk!"

***

She had managed all of three hours sleep before wakefulness claimed her again.

Captain Sparrow had been escorted back to his bunk, provided with medication for his anticipated headache and left to his own devices. After the amount of brandy he had consumed she was sure that sleep would have accounted for most of the intervening time, but there was little else he could do given that she had secured all hatchs and doors after she had left him.

Returning the bottle to the rack she had been surprised to see just how much brandy they had accounted for, he at least was heading for one almighty hangover by nightfall. Though she had no fear of such after effects for herself she did wonder just how much the drink had influenced their conversations. She had hoped it would encourage him to talk but there was no denying that she had probably said more than she intended to too. The story of betrayal and violence he had told her was not the sort of thing a sane man would tell to someone he wanted to persuade of his good intentions, so either he wasn't a sane man or he thought he was telling the truth, or he was telling the truth.

She had taken her doubts to Ariadne.

"You heard it all of course, so what do you make of it?"  
Ariadne seemed to think about that for a moment,  
"There is much he is not telling, I noted that he seems particularly reluctant to talk about the events immediately prior to his meeting with his old acquaintances and this conflict he describes, of course there may be many reasons for that but he seems uncomfortable about it even when not being challenged." She eventually stated. "However the ships he described as being part of the sea battle were in keeping with those that I identified earlier, and unless he was prepared for your remark about the eighteenth century before he came aboard there is no reason why that should be the case, other than it is the truth as he recalls it."  
"Your assessment of the situation then?"  
"The probability remains that this is a hallucination of some form, that would account for why what is happening within it is consistent."  
"But as we have already agreed we cannot test that."  
"Yes, and that remains the case. Therefore there is no option but to continue as if this is reality."  
"And if it is reality, what then?"  
"Then whether his story is correct is irrelevant, either way we are presented with a problem. There is no way of knowing what the future projection for this reality is, this ship may be integral to its development but it may also be an anomaly that will distort matters with unforeseen consequences."

Elanor rubbed her head, though safe from a hangover it seemed that she was heading for a headache every bit as big as the alcohol fuelled one her passenger was probably facing,  
"Which means what? In practice that is?" she asked.  
Aridane thought about that,  
"If you are a fundamental of this realities future then what you do will probably not matter much, on the other hand if you are an anomaly you may be destructive."  
"Your recommendations being?"  
"On balance it seems best that you avoid contact with the rest of this world as far as is practicably possible."  
"Which might well be a problem."  
"Indeed, it is hard to see how it can be achieved in the longer term."  
"In the short term?"  
"The best option seems to be to weigh anchor and keep moving, scanners can detect ships before they have a chance of seeing you and you have no immediate need of making port, even with a passenger you have food for many months and power if you need it. Keep off the sea routes, and away from inhabited areas, and we may be undetected for some considerable time, time that may allow us to develop a more effective plan."  
"Or for the door, if that's what it is, to open again."  
"There is no way of predicting if, or when, that will happen. We have no data about conditions here prior to our arrival that might be used as a test of conditions for reopening."  
"Thanks Ariadne, I really needed to know that!"  
"There is no point in prevarication, our situation is most undesirable and the danger is considerable."

"And our passenger?"  
"You need to keep him onboard, at least until we have more information about this time and place. The historical data banks can provide much information about this period but that is not equal to a practical knowledge of the time. We have a much better chance of avoiding being seen, or otherwise detected, with him aboard than without him; and it is imperative that we avoid being seen if at all possible."  
"He might not view it that way."  
"For the moment I think that he will. It is clear that he had no ship, nor any sign of means other than what he was carrying. That being the case he will have much to gain by being on board. If his story is correct to any degree at all then it will be in his interests to stay out of sight for a while."  
Elanor thought about that for a moment,  
"Provided he doesn't make attacking the Navy or this East India Company a condition of staying, and I wouldn't put it past him. In fact I wouldn't put much past him."  
"I do not think that you have reason to fear for your immediate safety," Ariadne responded, "he shows no sign of psychopathic tendencies, allowing for the fact that this appears to be a time when life was held cheap, and violence was common, that is. You will need to take account of that in your dealings with him, and the fact that he is a marked man with no chance of redemption other than by pardon from the crown. Which, if his story has any truth, seems to be a remote possibility. However your weapons are superior to any he might have and your strength is probably equal, something he will not expect; I can protect the ship and you too should it be necessary."

Elanor ran her hands over her hair,  
"And what if he wants to go? What then?"  
"Then you persuade him otherwise. Failing that I suggest you render him the prisoner he seems to feel himself to be."  
"Are you suggesting that I lock him up? What would that make me? Would you have me put him in chains too?"  
"Only if there is no other way. But remember the world he hails from, capture by others would be far worse than anything you are likely to do to him."  
"What a pleasant thought."  
"Indeed, but do not be swayed by sentiment on that head. If they were to catch you your fate would be no better than his."  
"So I'm a pirate as well as a gaoler now am I?"  
"Worse than that, at best you would be seen as a pawn in a war and at worst a handmaiden of the devil, if this is the early eighteenth century then there are still those who would burn you out of hand."  
"Another pleasant thought."  
She got to her feet,  
"Well I suppose I'd better go and talk to my new partner, maybe if I feed him again he'll be more amenable."  
"There are other options you might try."  
The voice was bland but Elanor glared all the same,  
"I wish I could say that I didn't understand what you mean by that, Aridane, but I've a nasty feeling that I do. Shame on you! Women of the world we may be but there are limits. At the moment eighteenth century pirates are well outside of them, even clean ones. So, while I'm gone put your thinking cap on and try to find us a more reliable way out."

***

Evening had fallen bringing a soft wind that barely rippled the swell and a sky alight with stars. Jack thought back to the last time he had watched the stars, his mind lost in the past, and wondered, not for the first time, at the changes in fortune that a day could bring. It was one of his abiding comforts.

Not that he was short of comfort at the moment. The thought that he couldn't recall a time when he had been more comfortable without the Pearl stirred lazily and whispered a warning to him. He had to keep reminding himself that he was still a prisoner, unarmed and dependent upon his captor's good will for survival; for she was good willed enough despite the sharp words and sharper glances. Much of what hostility she showed was down to her guilt at running him down, he was sure of it, that and the possiblity, as yet unspoken between them, that she needed him perhaps more than he needed her. How long that might last remained to be seen but for the moment he was content enough, and if he had to keep a watch on his tongue, and curb his less professional interests, well that was no real hardship. Not when he had a mast at his back, the creaking of canvas above him and the afterglow of what, he suspected, might yet prove to be too much good brandy.

He had slept the early evening away in what he was already starting to think of as his cabin; that he had slept alone was the one disappointment of the day, the fair captain had left him to consult her ghost. She had awakened him to yet more food, unexpected but the smell of it had soon convinced him that he was hungry; the woman seemed determined to feed him and that was novel enough to be disarming, though if she was set on playing the motherly role she a lot to learn. Now as he sat and stared at the sea, with a belly far fuller than he was accustomed to, he could only hope she wouldn't ask him to go aloft.

With a sigh he pulled the compass from his belt and checked the bearing. The heading showed steady now, though it had flickered a little earlier in the day, and he bent his mind to how to best achieve his next objective. It was clear from what she had said that she had no idea how she had arrived where she was, which meant that, for the moment, she would have no idea about how she was going to get back again. In which case any one with her best interests at heart could see that she would want for occupation, all he had to do was persuade her that the fountain was as good as any and it would be his in far shorter time than he had feared. Once he had that then all he would have to do was wait for Barbossa to bring the Pearl to him. He would take it, with or without Captain Cavendish's help; with if he could manage it for he was sure that this ghost of hers would be most helpful in the endeavour.

Then? Well he would think about that when it was accomplished. Having come to a decision he settled back to enjoy the night air.

The sudden noise brought him to his feet without thought. He stared around cautiously, but there was still no sign of either her or her ghost, just the long length of the ship silvered by the evening light. But he knew that sound, carefully he advanced to the source, sure enough the anchor chain was winding, someone, or something, was weighing anchor. He watched in fascination as the anchor appeared above the surface, then in astonishment as it slid into the hull and a section of the planking moved back to hide its passing. Jack looked upwards, feeling the canvas shift rather than hearing it, then the sound of the lapping sea changed and the prow rose as the ship finally got her wish and headed towards the horizon. He hurried forward leaning out over the rail to watch the moon gilded waters slipping under the bow.

The sight of it brought a smile to his lips, she cut the waters as clean as he had expected, the movement first soothing, then distracting, then entrancing. Another darting look told him he was still alone, so whatever had got them underway it was nothing he had knowledge of. But his solitary state offered possibilities and he was taken by a powerful urge to feel this chaser of dawns dance under his hands. The helm was outlined against the sea, calling to him it seemed, inviting him to come and take his destiny back into his own hands. The desire to feel the warmth of the wheel under his fingers was maddening, and what harm could it do?

He had crossed the deck even before he was aware of the intention to do so, up the steps to that station he had run from the previous night, ignoring the strange windows and lights his gaze locked on the wheel, strangely still. Then he remembered the voice of the ghost and parts of his mind screamed for caution, but another part was whispering, 'just a touch, no harm done eh? Just a touch.' His hands seemed to act of their own accord fingers spreading out in anticipation as he reached forward, stepped forward towards the beckoning wheel.

The pain hit him like an icy wave. Just a hint of the warmth of wood below his touch then it came like a lightening strike up his arm, throwing him back from the wheel, sending him stumbling down the steps to land in a shaking heap on the deck. Around him the ghost was screaming her outrage, and the wheel and all around it was lit up by bright and bloody light. Jack scuttled back to a safe distance and sat shivering, staring at it in horror.  
"I'm sorry, I should have warned you." Elanor's voice came from behind him, "I should have realised that the temptation would be too much."  
She went passed him quickly and up to the wheel, her touch silenced the screaming and dimmed the light.

He looked up at her in black fury, the pain still echoing through him,  
"What did I do to deserve that!" he hissed, still crouching on the deck. "I barely touched anything. I meant no harm, I just wanted to know what course we were steering and why the wheel was so still when we are underway. Why did your ghost attack me?"  
Elanor came down from the wheel and sat on the lower step, meeting the stormy eyes looking up at her with a frown, hoping that he wasn't going to do anything to earn a more painful lesson,  
"Ariadne will attack anyone who isn't me. She knew it wasn't my hand on the wheel and did what she is supposed to do. That's all. It's not her fault and its not yours, I should have known what you would do, after all it's what I would have done in your place." She signed, "perhaps I drank too much brandy after all, and I'm tired Captain Sparrow, do you understand that? I'm in a hostile world and I'm tired, I can't take chances and I won't. After all I don't know much about you and what I do know is not conducive to trust now is it? Would you trust me if our roles were reversed?"

Jack felt the anger ebbing away with the pain and damned his honest streak, he knew in her place he would do no different so how could he blame her? He had seen enough of her to know that she was unlikely to do anything stupid so he should have been more cautious. Feeling his shoulders sag as the last of the pain faded away he drew a deep breath,  
"No worries. I'm in one piece and I'll be more careful next time. Nasty temper that ghost of your has but I should have expected nothing more."

She caught the bitter note in his tone and got to her feet, holding her hand out to him,  
"I am truly sorry if she hurt you Captain Sparrow. But she can do far worse than that, maybe you will believe that I'm not helpless now."  
"Never thought that you were luv," he took the outstretched hand and his eyes widened slightly as he felt the strength of her grip, "never thought that you were."  
He let her haul him to his feet then followed her across the decks. At the rail she turned to look at him her eyes watchful,  
"Ariadne sees everywhere, there is no where on the ship that she cannot reach an intruder. I can sail the ship, and normally I would do so, but I don't have to, anything that needs to be done Ariadne can arrange."  
"So she is sailing it now?"  
"Yes, she is sailing it now."  
He nartowed his eyes at her,  
"Where to Captain Cavendish? Where are we sailing to?"  
"No where in particular Captain Sparrow, is there somewhere that you wanted to go? So far you have avoided telling me where it was that you were going when we collided, so it's unlikely that we are heading there.

Jack hesitated for a moment then decided that there would never be a better time than now to put his proposition to her. But better to clear the ground first. He moved slightly closer to her, leaning on the rail he half turned to face her,  
"Don't you think its about time we dropped a little of the formality luv? Captainly respect is one thing but all this Captain Cavendish and Captain Sparrow is beginning to make my head hurt."  
He inclined his head towards her and smiled his most charming smile, raising one hand he let a finger edge towards the shining waves of her hair,  
"Call me Jack. If we'd shared such a bottle as that brandy of yours in an inn we'd be on more than first name terms by now."  
Her worried frown was replaced by a half smile and her hand came up to grasp his wrist, stopping the wavering finger mid air,  
"Oh would we? Well as I think it highly unlikely you would ever find a bottle of anything I would recognise as brandy in any inn you are likely to risk entering the possibility is superfluous, isn't it?"  
That brought something that could only be described as a 'tut' as he shrugged in apparent offence and raised his eyes heavenwards. She shook her head and dropped his wrist,  
"But Jack it is. I suppose there is no reason you shouldn't call me Elanor." She stared at him hard, "but don't even think about shortening it in any way. I won't answer to Ellie I warn you, and if you ever try El or Nor then I'll have Aridane eviscerate you."  
He grinned happily and held his hand out,  
"Agreed. Elanor it is."  
She shook his hand but wasn't surprised when he didn't let go. Instead his fingers stroked her hand and he moved closer still,  
"Now about our heading."  
"You have a better one in mind? Jack."  
"Well now you come to ask, there is this fountain.."

***

"I don't believe it! I've given you the benefit of the doubts so far but this is too much! The fountain of youth? There are enough people in my time chasing that for it to be very unlikely that it would have remained hidden if there was one."  
"Ah, but we've agreed that this may not be your world."  
The brilliance of his smile suggested that he felt he had just clinched the argument. She disagreed,  
"Perhaps not, but even so its too ridiculous to be given any serious consideration."  
He regarded her with raised brows,  
"More ridiculous than a door in time and space luv?"  
She sighed and shot him a weary look,  
"You aren't going to let that go are you?"  
The gilded grin returned but he stayed quiet. She fumed at it knowing that there was no real answer to his point,  
"And by the way, I may have agreed to Elanor but I did not agree to being called luv."  
He rolled his eyes in a pantomime of put upon resignation,  
"Elanor. Touchy creature aren't you?"  
She took the risk of leaning towards him,  
"Yes, around you I am. But I'm also the one with a bad tempered ghost, remember?"  
That bought a noisy sigh,  
"How could I forget, me nerves are still jumping." He looked nervously towards the helm, "Is she watching now?"  
"She's always watching Jack, everywhere."  
"Everywhere!"  
Something seemed to occur to him and horror flitted across his face making her smile,  
"But don't worry, she means you no harm and she's discrete, she won't tell tales unless I need to know."  
'Well at least I think she is' Elanor thought, but Ariadne's full capabilities remained to be discovered.

She saw his look change, speculation sparking in his eyes, and she started to move away from him, but she wasn't fast enough and one arm snaked around her shoulder, though the grip was gentle. He smiled at her again,  
"Now about this fountain.... Elanor. I'm telling you naught but the truth. If you were to look at that chart of mine you'll see that it's clearly marked. All we have to do is sail there in your beautiful, fast, ship pick up the necessary and then go to ground somewhere while we decide how to spend eternity. Savvy?"  
Elanor stood and stared at him, he looked like a child who saw Father Christmas with a very big sack standing on the hearth rug, if he intended to mislead her there was no way of reading it in his face.  
"Simple as that?" she said, "It doesn't occur to you that this thing, assuming it exists, may have strings attached?"  
His smile didn't dim,  
"Of course it does. But the time to worry about that is when we have it. Eh?"

The arm around her shoulder tightened and he pulled her closer, his smile fading and his voice dropping to a purr,  
"Think of it this way, you can't go home, not yet, you don't know how, so you might as well take me to find the fountain as do anything else, might you not? You can't stay here luv, I mean Elanor, you can't just drop anchor and hope the door opens again, it might, it might not, it might take a hundred years."  
The smile returned coaxing and inviting, his hand curled gently around her shoulder and voice took on an ostentatiously reasonable note,  
"In which case you want to be alive and healthy when it does. In which case you want the fountain too. Or a least some of what it contains."

Elanor looked at him with resignation, he was irritatingly acute. What else did she plan to do? This fountain was bound to be in some out of the way place that figured on few other maps. Somehow she doubted that the British Empire, or any other, in any reality would have missed an island marked 'stop here for eternal youth.' If that was the case then it would achieve two of Aridane's list of priorities, it would keep her out of the way of other ships and keep him on board and content while she learned from him the things she so desperately needed to know. With a sigh she shrugged her acceptance of his point.

Jack leant away from her, still keeping his hand on her shoulder, reading first indecision, then annoyance, then acceptance in her normally shuttered face. No doubt she had reasons of her own for accepting his proposal, and she was going to accept he was sure of it, but time and patience would teach him what those might be, and he might well enjoy the learning. For now he would accept what he thought was being offered, he quirked an eyebrow at her,  
"So Captain Cavendish, what say you and your bad tempered ghost? Do we have an accord?"

Elanor stared at him reminding herself that it could have been worse. It could do no harm to make a quick trip to this island and let him visit this spring, at most he would get ill from it and the medical supplies should be good enough for that. Why then was she sure that there was more to it? Not that it mattered, she had to do something and this was as good as anything else. Finally she nodded,  
"We have an accord."

End of Voyage One


End file.
